


until you say it out loud

by kaywayy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Azula (Avatar) Redemption, Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Canonical Child Abuse, Gay Zuko (Avatar), M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaywayy/pseuds/kaywayy
Summary: Sokka never wanted a soulmate.Zuko never wanted to be found.When Sokka half-bonds to a beautiful stranger, he questions everything he once believed.Or, a soulmate au where people aren’t always who they say they are, and bonding is the bane of everyone’s existence (well, almost everyone).
Relationships: Aang & Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Suki/Yue (Avatar)
Comments: 179
Kudos: 364





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys! i’m so excited to finally share this fic with y’all! i feel like it’s consumed my every thought for a few weeks now, so getting it out here finally is like really surreal. 
> 
> special thanks to [clem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefindhope/pseuds/lovefindhope), [softlygasping](https://softlygasping.tumblr.com/), [snailwriter](https://snailwriter.tumblr.com), and [mygirlfriendthemoon](https://mygirlfriendthemoon.tumblr.com) for beta reading this for me! 
> 
> title is from "in your head" by nilufer yanya
> 
> additional information/clarifications at the end!

When Zuko was young and the world had not yet pressed its weight on his shoulders, he thought his mother’s smile was bright enough to fend off the monsters, the demons that lurked in the dark. When she was near, he knew everything would be all right. 

There was nowhere he’d rather be than tucked beneath her arm, the warmth of her embrace easing him to that wonderful place between wakefulness and rest. She would whisper to him, like she was letting him— _him_ , of all people—in on the universe’s most precious secrets. She told stories of spirits guided to one another, their destinies intertwined in a neverending dance through time. Bonded souls were designed to love each other, to protect each other, no matter the cost, she would say. And he believed her. 

Late at night, he would dream of finding his soulmate, his _person_. Someone who would hold him and make him feel as loved as his mother does, only better. They would be there unconditionally, even if he wasn’t the smartest, or the strongest, or the bravest. He had never been any of those things, despite how hard he tried. He told himself they wouldn’t care, _shouldn’t_ care, because they were the other half of his soul. As familiar to him as the color of his eyes and the unevenness of his smile. He imagined the mark that would blossom across his skin as they spoke his name, he fantasized about its shape, its texture. Although its appearance is ever-changing from body to body, lifetime to lifetime, it has blessed him before and would again, for as long as their souls existed together. 

But, as time has the power of doing, childhood fantasies become exactly that: fantasies. 

He now knows that demons manifest in spite of love, in spite of light. Monsters take on human shapes, emulating loved ones, harming without a care or consequence. He knows darkness dims even the brightest of smiles and _takes_ until all that’s left is the crushing, searing weight from a world which no longer holds safety, or love. 

He knows souls are destined to find one another. But maybe it’s a mercy if they never do. 

****

The move from his home up north in Utqiagvik to Anchorage had been one of the hardest parts of Sokka’s twenty-one years of life.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Anchorage—he does. The city is a captivating, vibrant place with a pulse which he swears he can _feel_ sometimes as if it’s its own living, breathing entity. For one, he gets to study his dream subject, Mechanical Engineering, at the University of Alaska, which is an insane opportunity. When he’d received his acceptance letter in the mail along with a full-ride scholarship, he knew he had to take the risk. As much as he’d miss his family, his home, and his people, it would be worth it. It had to be. But, leaving the familiarity of home, where everything made sense, wasn’t as easy as he initially believed. 

The first year had been the worst. Because Utiqiagivk was inaccessible by anything other than aircraft, he had never really traveled outside of it before he moved. His family was comfortable, but trips for leisure were not necessarily within their budget. 

He hated to admit it, but he resented being alone in a new city. 

At first, he’d thought the root of his problem was being surrounded by a staggering amount of people. How anyone could make lasting connections when the people ebb and flow like the ocean—never lingering or stagnating long enough to have more than a passing interaction—was beyond him. 

In Utqiagvik, he knew most of the families in his vicinity by name. Of course, he didn’t know everyone in the entire town, but between himself, Katara, Dad, and Gran-Gran, the number of familiar faces he saw on a daily basis was more than enough. He was never lonely or bored, at least not for long. His father was a whaling captain, and even when he would leave with the other men either to hunt or bring back supplies from another town, their absence was definitely missed, but not in the almost oppressive way he had come to know the emotion while on his own. 

He wasn’t used to being independent in the sense that no one was looking out for him, and he had no one to look after for himself. Sokka prided himself in his independence—he could hunt, fish, and build anything he needed without help—but the lack of community as a whole near and on campus was certainly jarring. He made a point to attend events on campus for other Alaskan Natives, and it was nice to be around others who understood the complexity of his situation, which he had trouble verbalizing to those who had never left their families behind. However, without the intimacy of home, what comfort he did receive was fleeting. 

He made friends, he worked, he studied. He missed home, but eventually, as life tends to force, he adapted. 

It wasn’t until Katara moved in with him in his second year at the university that he felt a semblance of wholeness. She brought with her not just her annoying little sister self but also the life, the vibrancy of the home he missed. In no small way, Katara was his heart. When they were children, they had relied heavily on one another, so separating for even a month was like losing a limb, let alone an entire year. 

That is until the traitor went and got herself bonded to some random kid from one of her sophomore environmental studies courses. She had been so excited, coming home from class, cheeks rosy and a warmth in her eyes Sokka had never seen in her—well, not in a long time. _Not since Mom was still around_ , his unhelpful brain supplied. 

_“His name is Aang, and he’s just amazing! We were assigned to work with each other on this project for class, and he just said my name out loud! Right there! He said he had a gut feeling about me, and couldn’t bear to live another second without saying it! Oh Sokka, isn’t it wonderful?”_

The whole thing was ridiculous. Who even says someone’s name the first time they meet them? Name-sharing was supposed to be done in private, so in the event that the bond does occur, then it’s a moment only shared by the people involved. And in the case where the bond doesn’t occur, then no one else would be privy to the flush of disappointment staining faces once filled with hope. Didn’t this kid have any shame about forcing someone to bond with him willy-nilly like that? When they didn’t even have a choice? 

And she still hadn’t shown Sokka her mark. 

But, whatever. He didn’t care. 

Sokka thought he should be happy for her. Of the two of them, Katara had always loved the idea of soulmates, ‘ _it’s just soooo romantic_ ’ she would say. 

But reality is far less kind. If there’s one lesson he knows for certain: nothing good ever comes from bonding. 

Bonding doesn’t put food on the table or money in the bank. It’s not practical, not like a weapon or a skill, and it’s hardly _romantic_.

Bonding doesn’t prevent tragedy.

Bonding didn’t save his mother. 

Bonding was just another way for the spirits, or the universe, or whoever it was in charge of these things, to ruin people’s lives. 

****

_Late, late, late_. 

Sokka’s frazzled brain processes nothing else as he races down the sidewalk on his skateboard, gravel flying as he kicks off from the ground. 

Said gravel also ends up in his worn sneakers, digging into the tender side of his foot as he puts pressure on the board to balance himself, but that’s a problem for future Sokka. Current Sokka is unbelievably _late_ and his professor is going to kill him—or worse, fail him out of the program. 

He’d been up most of the night finishing his midterm project for Biomechanics, but of course he didn’t wake to the alarm from his phone (stupid Britney Spears stupid toxic stupid sleep-deprived brain). 

Thank the Spirits for miracles in the form of little sisters because otherwise he wouldn’t be up at all, which he supposes would be worse. Though, it would’ve spared him the current body-numbing panic he’s currently experiencing.

The wind is unseasonably frigid for early October, and a particularly strong gust of the icy air billows against him, threatening to knock him from his board. He curses himself for not grabbing a heavier coat in his rush, the thin material of his denim jacket doing little to combat the chill. As it stands, he already has his metaphorical hands full ducking around other students and steering clear of cracks in the worn pavement without worrying about battling the actual elements which are apparently out to get him too. 

He looks down at the watch on his wrist and groans: _08:50 am._

He has to be across campus in less than ten minutes to turn in his project, and if he’s lucky, _which he isn’t_ , he will barely make it on time, if at all. 

He smacks a hand against his forehead, eyes squinting inadvertently as he contemplates his life choices. 

Of course, his life choices include closing his eyes while skateboarding. 

Meaning, he doesn’t see a person step unknowingly into his path. 

He glances in front of him at the last possible moment, dark eyes meeting golden brown, the latter of which widen imperceptibly in alarm, before he barrels into them. 

What’s that rule again? _‘A body in motion will remain in motion unless it is acted upon by an external force’?_ Yeah, thanks a lot, Newton.

Sokka lands on his back in the grass bordering the sidewalk with a dull thud, knocking every ounce of air from his lungs. The person he hit, _the external force_ , lands squarely on top of his stomach, forcing even more air (how was that even possible?) from his already oxygen-depleted body. 

“Ow! What the— _Shit! Fuck!”_ A raspy voice gasps from his place sprawled across Sokka’s middle. 

Sokka’s brain—which is on an endless loop of _oh shit oh fuck—_ is definitely in agreement. But seeing as he has no air with which to form the actual words, he hopes the groaning, harsh wheezes forcing themselves from his body are enough to convey his thoughts. 

Golden-brown eyes meet his, again, only this time Sokka has more than a split second to look at the person he has found himself underneath. A raised, inconsistently colored (but still seemingly well-healed) scar stretches across the left side of his face. Around his left eye the skin is tight, pulling his expression, at least on that side, into a permanent glower. And, on closer look, the bright, searing golden-brown that he noticed prior to impact is not as vibrant in the left eye as in the right. He wonders if his vision is only partially affected, or if the damage from the burn— _Spirits, it had to be from a burn, didn’t it? Poor guy_ —had taken his sight completely. He cannot see the full extent, as the rest of the scar disappears behind a curtain of shoulder length, black hair. Despite the injury, the guy he accidentally _assaulted_ is breathtaking. 

The moment is broken when, in a show of eerie camaraderie, they jerk to motion within seconds of one another.

He pushes himself up to a sitting position as the other boy gracefully rolls off of him and onto his feet. 

He reaches a hand down for Sokka, who takes it begrudgingly. His grip is firm and steady, the rough calluses on his palms rubbing against Sokka’s own. He helps him up much easier than he was expecting after a quick glance over his lithe frame. 

“Hey, uh—” Sokka starts, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “I’m really sorry. About, you know, running you over and everything.” 

The guy snorts as he brushes the specks of grass and dirt from his black jeans. He looks up, eyes scrunching as he appraises him. At least, he hopes he’s looking in an appraising way and not in an _‘this weirdo needs to get away from me as soon as possible’_ way. 

“I suppose,” he says, head tilting slightly in consideration, “if you didn’t mean to, then I accept.” 

Sokka bites back the scoff that threatens to rip its way from his throat, because _of course he didn’t mean to, occasionally he just doesn’t watch where he’s going, okay, it happens sometimes,_ _sue him_. Or not, because suing was definitely something that could happen in this situation (aw man, now he really hopes he isn’t planning on suing). 

“Are you, okay?” The gruff voice comes again, kinder this time. Right, in the midst of his panic he’d forgotten that responses are kind of necessary in conversations. 

“Oh, me? Yeah, I’m perfect, peachy actually! I just have to—” he freezes and looks down at his watch, realizing with acute horror that the time showing before him isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

08:58 am. 

“Listen, I’ve gotta run! My midterm is due in, like, 30 seconds and there’s already no way I’m getting there on time,” he says, kicking his skateboard right-side-up onto the concrete, preparing to haul mega ass to the Engineering and Industry building. 

“Good luck.” The nameless boy turns, tucking his hands into his pockets. 

Sokka doesn’t know why he hesitates. Maybe it’s because he feels guilty, or maybe it’s because their interaction feels unfinished, like the tide pulling away from the shore with the promise of a return. But he won’t let himself dwell on the _why_ , he can’t. 

Decision made, he resolutely turns and says over his shoulder. “I’m going to that new tea cafe, The Jasmine something-or-other, to study after I’m done in like an hour.” The figure in front of him wavers. “If you want, I could meet you there, maybe buy you a drink as compensation for almost concussing you just now?” 

A second passes, then two, then three. 

Sokka almost gives up, almost takes back the offer, anxiety prickling under his skin. 

He gives a small shrug, the movement so minute he wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t studying the other so intensely. A movement he isn’t convinced is even for his benefit. 

“I’d like that.” 

****

Zuko should’ve never agreed to meet the skateboard boy. 

_Stupid, stupid. Why is he so bad at this?_

And he’s meeting him at his _uncle’s cafe_ on top of it. 

He tried to stop himself from uttering the words sealing his agreement, but then his brain uselessly supplied him with the memory of the faint flush that stained the boy’s deeply tanned cheeks. A flush which was barely visible unless one was standing close enough or found themselves lying across his core, staring down at him from an almost perfect vantage point. 

He couldn’t decline when those dark, infinitely brown eyes met his own so hopefully.

So he’d agreed. 

He supposes he could not show up to the cafe, he has no real obligation to follow through on his promise. The likelihood of seeing him again in passing was slim on a campus this size, especially if he avoided that particular sidewalk, _or entire side of campus_ while he was at it. But he had agreed, and although his word meant little to anyone but himself, backing out would eat away at him regardless. 

Zuko doesn’t like giving people the opportunity to get close to him. Hell, in his years at the university, he’s only made friends with one other person, and only because said person is the human embodiment of a golden retriever who refuses to take no for an answer. 

His days bled together—his life sectioned into two categories: before and after. It’s easy to let himself become waif-like, passing through the motions as though being pulled along by a thread, refusing to see or be seen unless he chooses. 

The boy on the skateboard hadn’t passed through him, hadn’t smoothed his gaze over him without noticing his presence. He had, quite literally, _crashed_ into him. Zuko had looked into his eyes and saw so much life within them that his entire being ached with the warmth of it. 

He was comfortable in his routine, and the less people he let close to him, the less people he would eventually hurt. That was the only thing he had ever been good at. 

It’ll be fine, he tells himself. It’s not like he will ever have to see him again. 

****

Sokka is running late— _again_. Thankfully, despite arriving almost ten minutes late to his class, his professor still allowed him to turn in his assignment. Not to stroke his own ego, but sometimes it pays to be the teacher’s favorite. But why the common theme for the day had to be his declining punctuality, when normally he’s perfectly on time, he has yet to find out. Honestly, he schedules everything in his planner days in advance, but the universe clearly hates him (and maybe he is impeccable at planning his time but terrible with time management, but who’s asking). 

Turning the corner onto one of the off-campus side streets, he sees the sign for the cafe: The Jasmine Dragon. And oh, right, that was the second part. Dragon. He can’t believe he couldn’t remember it earlier. 

The shop is small and unassuming, situated between a local shopping mart and laundromat. He and his friends had found the cafe completely by accident at the start of the semester, and ever since then it had become a semi-regular spot. The tea was to _die_ for and for the most part the other patrons were elderly and let the college kids have their space, which was a total score in his book. 

The electronic chime above the door sounds as he pushes his way inside, the familiar burgundy and gold accents of the shop a welcoming sight. The warm, comforting scent of various tea blends and pastries wafts against him as the door closes. He scans the room quickly, eyes passing over the booths on the right and the sets of tables on the left. There are only four other patrons in the cafe, which isn’t unusual for the early afternoon hour, but none of them were the boy from earlier. He can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Sure, he was planning on studying here anyway, but it would’ve eased his conscience to at least throw a little money at his ran-over-a-cute-guy-with-a-skateboard-today problem.

“Good afternoon, young man. It is nice to see you again,” the portly old man behind the counter says. Sokka returns the greeting with a smile, his expression only slightly dampened by lingering disappointment. 

While ordering his usual, a peach tea _extra_ sweet, the door chime sounds again. Sokka glances over his shoulder instinctively, and he has to force himself not to visibly startle—it’s the boy. 

He meets Sokka’s gaze from across the store and raises his hand in a small wave, the corners of his mouth pulled up in a vaguely uncomfortable-appearing smile. 

A booming voice from in front of him interrupts before he can offer a greeting, or even return the wave. 

“Lee, my nephew!”

And wait, _what,_ his nephew?

“You never drop in on an old man like this.” He looks between the two boys, a strange look on his face. “But I suppose meeting a friend is as good a reason as any.” 

The boy’s—Lee’s, he corrects—expression looks equal parts murderous and mortified. He’d moved closer while his uncle was speaking, and now stands a few steps back from them. 

From this close, Sokka can see the rigid set of his shoulders and the flush that has made itself _very_ prominent against his pale skin. The right side of his face is pulled down in a smooth mimic of the scowl frozen on his left. 

“Uncle,” he says tersely. 

The old man has sense enough to look sheepish, the discomfort in his nephew clearly not lost on him. 

Sokka isn’t sure what made him so upset, until it dawns on him.

_His uncle said his name._

He knows that many people are hesitant, some even flat out refuse, to offer their name to those they do not know. It’s more common than not for people to go by nicknames, or by the first letter of their name, if they don’t wish for others to say it in their presence. He doesn’t necessarily relate because he’s always been forthcoming about his name, not seeing a point in keeping it a secret but also not keen on strangers dropping it into conversations, so he definitely understands. 

So he does the only thing he can think of to make the tense situation even slightly better and holds out his hand. 

“I’m Sokka. Didn’t get a chance to say that earlier for... obvious reasons.” 

If Lee’s name has to be known, then Sokka’s will too. It’s only fair. 

Lee accepts his peace offering, shaking his hand in return. The tension slowly bleeds from his frame and he offers a small smile. 

“C’mon, Uncle knows what I like,” he says, stepping towards one of the tables in the back. “We better claim one of these before the card guys do.” 

He wasn’t wrong, the group of older men who use the tea shop to play cards could be _ruthless_ about table poaching. He hoped they didn’t come in today (he was.. mildly afraid of them). 

They slide into the worn red seats opposite each other, the cracked vinyl squeaking in protest as they settle in. 

“Sorry about that,” Lee starts, thumbing at a scratch in the table. “My uncle can be overbearing.” 

“You know, for two people who only met today, we’ve gone through way too many apologies,” he says, hoping for a lighthearted response. 

“Maybe I have a lot to apologize for—” Lee’s expression tightens, and at first Sokka thinks he’s offended him, but then he chuckles softly and meets his eyes. “—but maybe it only seems like a lot because we met after you attempted murder.” 

****

“You’re a theatre major!” 

“Yes but—”

“Does that mean you sing, too?” 

“No! I—” 

“Oh my God, you totally do!” 

“I do not! If you don’t—” 

“I bet you sing _and_ dance! What, do they have you fill the role of prince charming in, like, every play?” 

“Stop it! I– No, why would I do… Listen, theatre is a really respectable craft and—” 

“Sure, sure. If I can name a role you’ve actually played then you’re buying me donuts.” 

“Hm. So what you’re saying is _you’re_ a fan of theatre?” 

“No, I mean… I’ve seen my fair share of shows but—” 

“Who’s the closet theatre geek now, huh? At least _I’m_ honest about it.” 

“Oh, pack it up, JD.” 

“...” 

“No. Way. _Heathers_ ?”

“It was a local production but—” 

“Aha! You do sing and dance! I knew it! I’m so right _and_ you owe me donuts.” 

“I hate you.” 

****

Sokka isn’t sure how long they talk. All he knows is he hasn’t managed to click this easily with someone since he met Suki his freshman year. 

He watches the boy in front of him with the kind of rapt attention he usually reserves for important things like completing a design for a new project, watching Katara and Gran-Gran prepare fresh Muktuk after a successful whaling season, or rereading the worn pages of his favorite poetry books. 

Lee is kind and reserved and bashful, his cheeks maintaining a light dust of color for hours. He’s even kind of funny, although if his humor is intentional or just a manifestation of his unshakable awkwardness, Sokka can’t really tell. 

He knows that the other boy prefers his tea black without cream or sugar (yuck) and his favorite play is _Love Amongst the Dragons_ , which he says is because of the nostalgia factor, _not_ the romance. 

Although why he’s nostalgic over a play about star-crossed soulmates, he doesn’t elaborate. 

He knows that Lee and his uncle moved to Anchorage three years ago when he’d started at the university, and seeing his uncle live out his dream of opening the cafe made him indescribably proud. 

He knows they both speak broken versions of their traditional languages, Sokka with Iñupiaq and Lee with Japanese. Sokka explains that his language is mostly spoken fluently among the elders, and as much as his Gran-Gran taught him, he still didn’t know it completely. Lee doesn’t explain his reason, but he knows they both feel the absence like a physical weight within them.

He knows Lee shuts down when asked questions about his past. 

Sokka doesn’t press.

They get little studying done, but he finds that he doesn’t care, not really, because Lee is more interesting than engineering. But he’d never admit it (not out loud, anyway). 

Lee laughs, tucking his chin towards his chest, and Sokka thinks he could write hundreds of stanzas, fill thousands of pages, and still never capture the way the motion makes his breath stutter. 

Sokka finds himself wanting to _know_ Lee. He wants to know what alarm he wakes up to, his favorite color, if he prefers to watch the sun set or rise, if his singing voice is as good as his speaking voice. Sokka doesn’t think he’d ever grow tired of learning these details, these small tidbits of seemingly meaningless information that make up the person before him. Details which would be forgettable from anyone else, but that he would treasure like a gift. 

He doesn’t know much, but he wants to learn. He just can’t decide what that means. 

But then Lee meets his gaze, and he thinks that he doesn’t really care. 

****

After the sun has moved a considerable distance in the sky, Sokka knows he can no longer keep the other boy hostage with him in the shop. He can’t shake the feeling of wrongness as he forces himself to stand and burst the theoretical bubble they had curated around themselves for the past several hours. He’d felt pinned by Lee’s gaze, almost dizzy with the rush he felt from holding the full force of his attention for so long that he hadn’t even noticed the passing of time. 

“I didn’t even get to follow through on my promise to buy you something,” Sokka says. “I guess I still owe you one.” 

Lee smirks at him as they walk to the front door, “I still owe you donuts, so I guess we can call it even.” 

Sokka doesn’t necessarily like that idea, although he can’t say that without sounding like an infatuated teenager. Which he isn’t, obviously, he’s just not keen on not having a reason to see him again. 

Belatedly, he realizes he should ask for his number. He doesn’t get the chance.

Lee notices his silence and must take it as his cue to leave because suddenly he’s raising his arm in a mimic of the wave he had given on his arrival to the shop and something about it feels so _final_ that Sokka panics. 

He can’t explain why he does the unthinkable. He can’t pinpoint when he consciously made the decision, if the decision was even his to make. It goes against every instinct, every self-preservation tactic he has ingrained in himself from the moment he lost his mother and subsequently witnessed his father lose the other half of his soul, the other half of his _heart_. It’s like he’s witnessing his body betray him while he watches helplessly from the sidelines. 

_“It was really nice to meet you, Lee.”_

The name hangs heavily between them. A deep furrow appears between Lee’s brow as he hovers between Sokka and the doorway. The look does nothing to ease the pounding of his heart in his ears, or the heat rapidly spreading from his cheeks down to his chest. 

_Why did he say his name,_ in public _, the absolute worst place to say someone’s name. Especially when there was no reason to, he clearly hasn’t bonded to Sokka, he didn’t even_ want _him to bond. He doesn’t_ want _a soulmate. What is_ wrong _with him? Why did he say his name?_

Lee moves to push open the door. Before leaving the cafe completely he pauses and whispers so quietly Sokka almost fears he imagines it. _Later, he would wish he hadn’t heard it at all_. 

“It was nice meeting you too, Sokka.” 

Then he was gone. 

****

_His chest is burning._

Sokka’s chest is _burning_ , but no one runs screaming from the cafe so there must not be a fire, or acid rain, or any other ridiculous phenomenon that could cause the entire left side of his chest to feel as though it’s spontaneously disintegrating. 

No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_. 

This can not be happening, not now, not here, not to _him_. 

A knot builds in his gut and grows, feeding off of his panic as he brings a hand up to firmly press against his chest wall. The skin beneath his palm is sweltering, the sensation spreading from just left of center and migrating to his left shoulder. He presses harder against himself, willing the mark—Spirits, a fucking _mark_ —to disappear back into his skin. 

_‘This is a mistake’_ he wills his body to listen, to take it back, to understand that it _made a mistake_. 

He stumbles into the tiny, one-person bathroom in the cafe. The door shuts behind him with a resounding click, sealing him away from the world but doing nothing to shield him from himself. 

Slowly, he shrugs his well-worn denim jacket from his shoulders, and hangs it on the hook behind the door. He leans his forehead heavily against the wood, trying to steady his rapid breathing. 

Breathe in. _Two, three, four._ Breathe out _. Two, three, four._

The breathing exercises do little to calm the shake of his hands, the hitch in his throat, the relentless _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart. The burning has subsided to a dull tingle, no longer exacerbated by movement. 

Unpeeling himself from the door, he turns and faces the mirror, looking stubbornly away from his reflection as he removes the last barrier between him and his _mark_. He holds his shirt in his hands, blinking back tears of frustration that threaten to slip down his nose. 

He closes his eyes. 

Breathe in. _Two, three, four._ Breathe out. _Two, three, four._

On the last exhale, he opens his eyes, meeting his own gaze in the reflection. 

He can’t help the gasp that pushes free from his lips against his will, couldn’t stop it if he tried. He’s allowed at least that, he thinks. 

He can’t deny his reality anymore—not to himself, anyway. The proof is written on his skin. 

A fire lily. Or rather, a series of fire lilies. They begin, as he felt, on the left side of his chest, extending over his collarbone and curling over the top of his shoulder. 

The five-pointed flowers are a deep, vibrant red, which almost seem to glow against his dark skin. The petals droop, as if the flowers were suspended in the air with gravity’s weight forcing them down. He imagines they must look that dynamic in person. He hopes he never finds out.

In any other scenario, he’d admit they were beautiful. 

But, he knows reality isn’t a fairytale. Beauty can also represent tragedy. 

And his reality is this: He bonded, but like the universe was playing a cruel joke on him, his soulmate did not bond back. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope y'all enjoyed this first chapter! i have the second one about 1/4th of the way completed, so it should be out relatively soon. I'm shooting to post every 2 weeks or so if i can stay on track ❤️
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr!](https://zukkau.tumblr.com)
> 
> Additional clarifications below: 
> 
> \- Muktuk: whale skin and blubber
> 
> \- Sokka and Katara are from Utqiagvik, which is the northernmost town in Alaska, and it has a majority Iñupiat population and culture. I plan to go more in-depth with their childhoods in later chapters through flashbacks or conversations because their identities are a big part of how they’re characterized and shaped and I don’t want that to be lost, but i couldn’t overload the first chapter with a lot of the necessary character background but it will come in bits and pieces throughout!
> 
> \- I didn’t get into it too much here, for similar reasons as mentioned above, because Zuko is trying to hide who he is and his family, but I will include more on his background and identity in later chapters in a similar way. Sokka is the main voice in this fic, as I have it planned so far, but Zuko will have his moments as he slowly opens up both to himself and to the other characters. 
> 
> \- I did research on Utqiagvik and Iñupiat people before writing this fic, but I am a white person who has probably accessed information written by other white people at some point during this process, so if there’s ever an inaccuracy in this story please tell me so I can correct it! Respecting and properly portraying these characters is my #1 priority in writing this modern-based au. 
> 
> \- okay so on soulmates: we don’t see a lot of explanation in this first chapter because, again it will come later, but basically soul marks appear when your soulmate says your name to you. This could be in any form, as long as you recognize that they are the ones saying it to you. So for example, in the event that someone is deaf, if their soulmate signed their name to them it would have the same bodily effect as hearing it. 
> 
> \- there is also a variance among cultures on the emphasis of soulmates, which again will be discussed in later chapters. 
> 
> \- if you have any additional questions please feel free to ask! i’ll only be vague if it’s a secret 😉
> 
> some of the soulmate world-building is inspired by [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4858376/chapters/11133491), with my own takes on it as well. 
> 
> i made a [google doc](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1v0MT0HrfRMveIA0IJH-flMVk5MmWiFQQhHbmmglJYXU/edit?usp=sharing) with some of the research that i used. there were a lot more websites that i accessed but some of it will be used in later chapters, so I'll update the link when it's relevant! i don't want to give too much away just yet lol 
> 
> i also spent a lot of time looking through the posts on [@mostly-mundane-atla](https://mostly-mundane-atla.tumblr.com) ’s blog. They offer really thoughtful and detailed responses to a lot of questions regarding the water tribe atla characters and real-life Inupiat traditions/culture. There are so many amazing resources there that I can’t even link them all but please please please go look through it for yourself!
> 
> also, watch patukglenn on tiktok she’s a really great source for bite-sized video-based information plus she’s from Utqiagvik! there’s also tons of information on the Utqiagvik tag on the app as well. 
> 
> this is my first time writing a fic (or anything really), so any comments/suggestions on how to improve would be so helpful and appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! i'm blown away by the response to the first chapter like 1k hits in 2 weeks?? on just one chapter?? it's unbelievable! but I'm so grateful for all of the positive comments and feedback, it really means so much and gave me a lot of encouragement to keep going! I can't wait to keep going on this journey with y'all <3 
> 
> —
> 
> special thanks to my betas [clem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefindhope/pseuds/lovefindhope), [softlygasping](https://softlygasping.tumblr.com/), and [snailwriter](https://snailwriter.tumblr.com) for helping me (and affirming me lol) you guys are so so amazing!

It starts to snow. 

Sokka’s world—once filled with so much color—is now blanketed in a thick layer of the icy, unrelenting substance. 

He knows there’s a message here somewhere, about how the outward physical change in the weather mimics the changes within him, but that’s more existential than he’s prepared to be right now. 

Snow is a comfort. Snow reminds him of home. 

It may be snowing now, where it wasn’t before, but the only symbolism he can see is a reiteration of himself; a reminder of who he is regardless of the brand freshly slashed across his chest.

He is still Sokka: the same guy who eats his weight in meat on any given day, the guy who cracks too many jokes, the guy who somehow manages to charm all of his professors, the guy who _loves_ so hard it can almost pass as a weakness. 

He is Sokka and he is whole.

The mark on his skin quite literally affirms all of his previous doubts and reservations relating to bonding. This must have been the reason he instinctively knew he never wanted to find his soulmate in the first place. 

He didn’t want a soulmate because his soulmate doesn’t exist. 

**** 

It was extremely rare, but certainly not unheard of, for half-bonds to occur. 

Sokka himself has only heard rumors and pity-inducing, tragic tales of couples who hoped to bond but found that their other half did not bond back to them and instead bonded to their true soulmate at another time. 

As he was discovering through his—albeit _unwilling_ —research, the experts have no real answer for this phenomenon. They theorize that not every soul is created with its perfect match. That, like average people, what a soul wants and needs in life will manifest in whatever way it chooses. Souls exist on their own frequency, and in one incarnation, a soul may be a perfect match, but not necessarily in another. 

In the best-case scenarios, half-bonded couples make do with what they have. If the unbonded person never meets their soulmate, then they typically stay with the person bonded to them. They live happy, normal lives; well, as normal a life as one can be expected to live without ever knowing the identity of their true soulmate. 

However, in the worst-case scenarios, the unbonded person eventually finds their true soulmate, leaving their half-bonded partner on their own. 

No one blames those who leave their half-bonded partners for this, not really. It makes sense, after all, to be with a true soulmate, but it doesn’t make it less callous, less bitter. _It’s cruel to love someone_ _conditionally_ , Sokka thinks. To live separately regardless of how much it hurts, to spare the partner the pain of abandonment, is a much greater kindness than to ever give them hope at all. 

He certainly doesn’t want to be in that position. _Not ever_. 

The more he researches, the more he learns about the differences many cultures hold on the reasoning behind half-bonds. For instance, some consider it a curse, a punishment for a past life’s wrongdoings. The speculation is that in order to half-bond in the next life, one had to have done unspeakable, heinous acts against their soulmate. Otherwise, why would their soul long for the comfort of another? 

Huh, it certainly feels like a curse. Maybe there’s some truth in all of this Spirit-y mumbo-jumbo. 

He never thought he’d end up in this position, never thought he had any real chance of ever meeting his… Well, his _something_. He thought he was safe, comfortable in his convictions, his reality. Sure, his parents were bonded, but Sokka still didn’t grow up around many other bonded pairs; there wasn’t even a strong emphasis on bonding in general within his culture. That’s not to say when it did occur, the couples weren’t congratulated, they were, it was just not as important as other aspects of daily life, like making sure everyone had enough to eat or preparing for the long winters. 

His people believed couples were together to ensure the survival of themselves and their families, and they could do so without being star-crossed, fate-driven lovers. 

If someone were to ask Sokka what he thinks, he’d say people put entirely too much meaning into bonding. Why let outside forces dictate who you love, and how you feel? 

It was only his luck that he would become one of those pitied, half-bonded horror stories that puzzled scientists and romantics alike. 

He never had any intention of bonding. But now a spur of the moment _mistake_ will forever be burned into his memory and into his skin. 

****

Sokka’s forced to walk to class now, the snow preventing him from using his skateboard. So on top of everything else, he’s also dealing with an essentially doubled commute time because he definitely isn’t avoiding the stretch of campus where… _it_ happened (scratch that, he definitely is and it just makes his walks through the snow even longer because he can’t take the oh-so-convenient shortcut). 

Sokka isn’t a coward. He isn’t. But, in this, he thinks he’s allowed to mind his business, lick his wounds, and move on with his life. 

Of course, because he’s avoiding certain sidewalks that means he’s also avoiding certain tea cafes, though that avoidance is much harder to explain. 

On Wednesday, roughly five days after the event, Suki texts him asking to meet up with their usual study group at the Jasmine Dragon, which Sokka has to enthusiastically decline. 

He knows from his short interaction with Lee and his uncle that the other boy doesn’t typically spend much time there, but he isn’t about to run into him again if he can help it. Even though he shouldn’t think about him—for his own sanity at the very least—he can’t control how the thought of seeing Lee again makes his heart race and his palms sweat. 

It’s just further proof of his body betraying him, _again_. 

He suggests that they meet at the Starbucks on campus instead—much to the annoyance of the rest of the group—so he isn’t necessarily surprised when Suki is the only one to join him at the significantly more crowded location. 

She picks her way effortlessly through the throng of people scattered throughout the small space. Her overalls are tucked into her snow boots in a way that would look silly on anyone else, but Suki somehow manages to pull off just like her signature winged eyeliner. 

She slides into the seat next to him at the long communal table in the back corner, stuffing her puffy coat into her backpack on the floor and pulling out her laptop and notebook with an unnecessarily loud sigh, side-eyeing the kid next to her who’s leaning just a little too close. 

“Digging your commitment to the look,” he says in place of a greeting. 

“Don’t push your luck,” she says. “I don’t even want to know why you’re subjecting me to this cesspool, Sokka.” 

“It’s good to see you too, Suks!” His enthusiasm is only slightly forced, he hopes she doesn’t notice. 

“Wish I could say the same to you.”

She nudges his shoulder with her own, and he knows her irritation with him is only for show (and theatrics). They’re best friends after all—meeting up at this commercialized monstrosity wouldn’t change that. 

Thankfully, being around Suki is as easy as breathing. There’s a reason she’s the only person—besides Katara because he can’t really avoid her—that he’s seen this week; she knows when to bother him for details and when to leave him be when he doesn’t feel like sharing, which is exactly what he needs right now. Currently, he’s planning on taking his secret to the grave (he’s only just starting to mourn the loss of sleeveless workout shirts and v-necks). 

They study together in almost comfortable silence, the incessant hum of noise difficult to block out completely.

He and Suki met in their philosophy gen-ed class freshman year, and they had been almost inseparable since that moment. As cliche as it sounds, they had just _clicked_. Their sense of humor was almost identical, and they prided themselves on how often they could make the other snort liquids out of their noses, much to the disgust of their friend group. 

Suki rests her chin in her hands, the movement exposing her left side where he knows her mark resides across her ribs. He tries to ground himself, but the reminder sends him into a mini-spiral. 

Sokka is no match-maker, but maybe he feels a little satisfaction in how he was able to help Suki find the love of her life—her soulmate. And no, Sokka doesn’t think soulmates are romantic at all, _especially not now_ , but he can’t help but admit that when he had introduced Suki to Yue it was like watching a scene in a cringe-y Hallmark movie where people fall in love at first glance. 

Yue was Sokka’s best friend from home. Her grandmother lived in his town, and she would visit every summer for a few weeks while the weather permitted easy travel. He wasn’t even ashamed to admit he’d been a little bit in love with her in his early teenage years, her presence was so captivating that it was impossible not to be drawn into her orbit. He remembers quite clearly the twinge of disappointment the first time they had shared names as children and no bond mark had appeared on either one of them. But then Sokka had lost his mother and his opinion on bonding would be forever soured and cast aside. 

Katara, Yue, and Sokka had been thick as thieves as children, and the two girls also had an unbreakable bond. He fondly remembers them learning to throat sing together, and how Katara almost always won their mini competitions, but in the off chance that Yue would win she would never brag or hold it over Katara’s head—she would simply _glow_. 

Even though they had fallen out of touch in their later years—Yue being too busy with school to travel for visits—they had reconnected when they discovered they would be attending the same university. 

Then, Sokka had met Suki and he felt it was imperative that he make the two girls meet, he just knew they would connect. However, he wasn’t prepared for their eyes to meet and for both of their mouths to drop simultaneously like they had rehearsed it in advance. Suki, who was usually so collected and suave, had blushed and stuttered through her introduction to the other girl. 

He’d later learn that they’d gone off together afterward to name share because they both texted him pictures of their marks: a beautiful, golden moon on Suki and a matching twin pair of golden fans on Yue. 

So, no, he doesn’t believe the universe should dictate who they love, but he can’t deny that both his sister and his best friends are immeasurably happy with their soulmates—he won’t discredit their bonds for all the cynicism in the world. 

Suki must notice him staring because she taps her pen on his open notebook, effectively shaking him from his thoughts. “Y isn’t going to solve itself, you know.” 

He sighs, looking down at the problem he has attempted to solve an embarrassing amount of times in the past hour. 

“I’m not even solving for Y,” he mutters, closing the book. It’s not like he’s actually getting any work done anyway. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You seem distracted.” 

His eyes widen and he shakes his head, desperately trying not to look as suspicious as he feels. “Nope, I’m just tired! I haven’t gotten good sleep since midterms, it must be catching up on me!” The tone of his voice is high and squeaky, and he winces internally. _Yeah, good job playing it cool, Sokka_. 

Suki’s eyebrow raises and she purses her lips in thought before shrugging absently, dropping the topic. “I feel you on the no-sleep thing, like I found Yue sleeping on the bathroom floor the other day because she pulled an all-nighter studying.” 

“Sounds like Yue, I swear she could fall asleep anywhere.” 

“Oh, you’re one to talk, _Snoozles_.” 

“Ugh–that was one time! You and Toph need to drop it already!” 

She pokes the furrow between his brows like she always does when he pouts at her. He blows a raspberry, and she clutches at her heart, feigning pain. 

Her phone chimes in the middle of her rant about the wounds he’s apparently inflicted, and she perks up as she reads the message. 

“Yue needs help with the Halloween decorations, so I’ve gotta go.”

They pack their belongings and stand, pushing the chairs in. They’re almost immediately shuffled out of the way as a couple of students push past them to claim the now empty seats. 

They share a look, each of them rolling their eyes. Sokka makes a mental note to buy Suki a card or something for the favor she did for him today (and another one to actually think of a better place to go now that the tea shop is out of the question). 

Suki wraps her arms around him, pulling him close, the calming scent of her ginger-spiced perfume enclosing them in a way that—predictably—relaxes him. 

“I’ll see you later, yeah?”

He steps out of her embrace and smiles fondly at her. “Of course! Let me know if you guys need a big, strong man to help you out.” 

“I think we’ll be fine without any help, thanks,” she says, elbowing him in the ribs. He fake glares at her, and she glares back for a moment until they dissolve into laughter. 

“‘Bye, babes.” She pats his cheek before leaving the coffee shop. 

He stands there for a moment, the warmth and comfort from the extended time with Suki slowly leaking out. Ever since last week, he’s had a hard time being alone. He doesn’t like to think, at all, about what happened, and being alone offers him no reprieve from his thoughts. 

The walk to his apartment passes in a daze—his vision reduced to _white, white, white_ —until he’s faced with the smooth wood of his apartment door and his arm holding out the key. He blinks rapidly a few times, looking over his shoulder, down to his hand holding the key, to the door, and back in rapid succession because he isn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t possessed on the way over here. He’d barely even processed the stinging bite of the harsh wind against his skin, the only evidence he’d been in the cold at all lying in the aching joint of his bad knee. 

Sokka listens carefully for any voices, these days he never knows if he’s going to have unexpected company. _Thanks, Katara_. Hearing none, he releases a breath. In his current, distracted state his sister would refuse to leave him be until she pried an explanation from him, and he isn’t prepared to give one. _Not that he’ll ever be prepared_.

Once in his room, he sits heavily on his bed and rests his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. _Why can’t you just get over it, huh? Move on!_ He groans and presses his hands against his closed eyes, attempting to convince his brain to _shut the fuck up, please._

When he opens his eyes, they land on the yo-yo hanging off the edge of his desk, the blue beads stitched into the sealskin bags glinting in the late afternoon sun. Tentatively, he reaches across the space and grabs the well-worn ivory handle, allowing the weight to rest in his palm. 

He holds the bag on the shorter strand of sinew in his left hand while rotating his right wrist in a smooth circular motion to allow the other ball to swing in a wide circle. Once the momentum is steady on that side, he tosses the other ball in the opposite direction. He watches the two swing together in perfect arches, passing between each other so fluidly without striking one another or becoming tangled. A perfect balance guided by his own hands. 

****

_Sokka’s mother had passed and the world was moving on without her and the unfairness of it all was crashing down on his small frame and he couldn’t_ breathe _._

_It had been a few hours since they’d received the news of the accident that claimed her, a simple outing gone terribly, horribly wrong, but it still didn’t feel real. None of it felt real. He expected her to walk through the door of their home and kiss his and Katara’s heads in turn like she always does—like she used to do._

_He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t scream and he wondered if this is what it felt like to die._

_He hoped his mother hadn’t felt like this._

_Gran-Gran found him, curled in a ball on his floor, and she kneeled next to him placing her hand gently on his forehead. She murmured to him in_ _Iñupiaq_ _, the tones soothing in its comfort._

_Eventually, he’d lifted his head from the ground, brown eyes swimming in tears and grief._

_“I want my mom,” he said, small voice catching as more tears pulled free._

_“I know, tutiiŋ,” she murmured._

_A fresh wave of sobs racked through him, and he threw himself at Gran-Gran’s middle, staining the front of her blouse with his tears. When he’d caught his breath again, she removed him from her waist and picked him up from the floor, depositing him onto his bed. She sat next to him and pulled a small object from the waistband of her pants, holding it out in front of them._

_“Do you know what this is, Sokka?” she asked._

_He examined it, poking at one of the balls dangling from the carved, white handle._

_“It kind of looks like the bola grandfather had, but smaller?” he answered, turning his head to look up at her._

_She smiled, nodding slightly in approval. “Yes, it is a descendant of the bola. This is a yo-yo, or an_ _igruuraak, and while it is often used as a toy, it also serves as a wonderful tool for centering our thoughts, and offering balance when we feel unsteady.”_

_Patiently, she demonstrated how to use the toy, explaining that the two weights are joined at the handle but are suspended on different lengths of sinew in order to ensure they remain balanced and do not clash when moving through the air._

_In the weeks following his mother’s death, he would sit in his room and swing the yo-yo in that calming, balanced circle and center himself and his thoughts. It was no replacement for the aching loss he felt for his mother, but it provided him with one aspect of his life he had missed: harmony._

****

Sokka studies the weights for a while longer, unwilling to give up the calm the familiar distraction brings. He wishes there’s some kind of magic pill, or hidden advice, or _anything_ that can help him figure out what to do—how to move past what happened. 

He knows, somewhere within him, that he shouldn’t care. After all, isn’t he the one who told himself and anyone who would listen that a bond shouldn’t dictate his emotions? So why does he feel the absence of a _stranger_ as if it was a physical, missing part of him?

Distractedly, he presses his hand to his chest, the material of his sweater thick but not thick enough to spare him from the feeling of the mark that lies beneath, the mark he hasn’t laid eyes on in a week. 

_Spirits, a whole week._

He wonders, briefly, if Lee knows what happened. If he wonders what Sokka is doing, how he’s feeling. If he did know, would he feel guilty—or embarrassed at the thought of Sokka’s biological attachment to him that he doesn’t share. 

_But how could he_? It’s more likely the interaction in the tea shop was just a blip in his week, a nice interaction with a boy he would never see again, and that was that. That is all it would be, a moment, a second, an increment of time that passed in a blink so quickly as to be forgotten by those involved. 

Except for Sokka, it will never be forgotten. But that’s his burden to bear, alone. 

He just needs to learn how to live with it. 

  
  


****

  
  


_“It was nice meeting you too, Sokka.”_

A simple phrase, a softly spoken name—something so inconsequential and yet so powerful—thrown so freely around by him as if it was completely weightless. 

As if it wasn’t wrong. 

As if the potential tie to himself wasn’t a curse. 

Zuko finds himself lying awake at night, in a restless, half-awake state. When he attempts to sleep, he’s plagued with visions of deep, brown eyes staring into his own and hears his voice uttering the name of an innocent stranger. Something he hadn’t done in years, something he hadn’t _wanted_ to do for much longer. 

Before he could apologize, he’d turned away, all but throwing himself into the street to avoid acknowledging his choice. _Why couldn’t he just let the gesture go unreturned?_ _What was it about hearing the other boy intentionally_ reach _for him that made him lose the control he’s spent years crafting?_ Looking back, it was as if his body made the decision for him, without any conscious approval. _But why?_

When he was a child, nothing brought him more unfiltered joy than learning the names of others. It never mattered who they were, if he knew them or if they were complete strangers, he would still ask to be handed their identities. There was so much wonder and power in a name—the barest and simplest way to exist in the minds of other people. _After all, what are we but a name?_

His habit was only encouraged by his mother, who would look upon him fondly as he introduced himself to people passing by, scarcely able to contain his excitement when they would return the favor. He would treasure them, he promised. 

Names were a gift and bonds were a promise, a reward, an outlet to pour all of the unconditional love from a soul. 

Mother would smile, squeeze him by the shoulders, and tell him how brave he was for holding onto them. 

It was only when he grew older that he realized naming was no gift, bonding only a promise of failure. He’d learn to keep his own tight to his core, refusing to release it into the air, refusing to allow anyone to hold power over him. Because if there was one lesson he’d learned in his life it was this: names were dangerous.

Names took people away from him, people who were _supposed_ to love him. 

Names hurt him. 

He hadn’t said another person’s name since he was sixteen and reckless— _until Sokka_.

Sokka, the boy who laughed too loud and smiled too crooked and made Zuko’s heart squeeze in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was young and dumb and unafraid. 

And still—despite everything he knows—he’d still separated from himself and did the one thing he promised never to do again. 

_And he hadn’t even apologized._

****

The incessant guilt gnaws at him in the days following their brief encounter. He begins spending every free moment he has in the Jasmine Dragon, on the off-hand chance that he’ll see Sokka again. 

He sits there for hours pretending to study, ashamed to admit that his head snaps up every time that _annoying_ electronic chime sounds above the door. He catalogs hundreds of passing faces outside of the windows and the few who make it into the cafe, but none is the one he’s looking forward to seeing. 

_Once, earlier in the week, he noticed a group of students who had similar textbooks to the ones Sokka had the week before when they studied. They piled into a table next to him, disrupting the calm of the shop with their raised voices._

_“I can’t believe they ditched us,” one of them said, his long bangs hanging in front of his face. “For_ Starbucks! _”_

_“It’s their loss. I don’t know how Sokka expects to get anything done over there,” another boy answers, locking his wheelchair. “He’s the one who showed us this place because he said he couldn’t handle the noise anywhere else.”_

_Zuko jolted, a ringing starting in his ears (that sounded an awful lot like Sokka’s name on repeat). He’d shaken himself, attempting to continue his eavesdropping._

_“–I don’t know, he said something about it being too far of a walk in the snow or something.”_

_“He’s from the north! It’s_ always _snowing there—that’s the weather he’s used to!”_

_“I’m just telling you what he said!”_

_“I can’t believe Suki fell for it.”_

_“We all know Suki only hangs with us_ because _of Sokka.”_

He’d tuned them out after that, the conversation no longer focusing on the only thing he cared to listen for and instead turning to their post-midterm studies. 

He knows Sokka has no reason to see him again, to seek him out here. He doesn’t owe him that. 

_“The world doesn’t owe people like_ you _anything.”_

He grips his hands into fists, fingernails biting into the sensitive skin of palms. In an attempt to settle himself, he takes a few slow, deep breaths like Uncle taught him to do when he becomes overwhelmed. Zuko’s unwilling to let _him_ into his thoughts, not now, not here. 

The chime above the door sounds again, and Zuko is secretly grateful for the relief the simple distraction brings him. He flicks a glance to the door, forcing away the disappointment as he recognizes that the newcomer isn’t Sokka. 

It’s been a week and a day since the last time he saw him. 

Zuko sits and waits at the same table with the same cracked vinyl seat coverings with the same _frustrating_ scratch in the wood in his uncle’s tiny cafe and waits for a boy who _isn’t coming_ and pretends that he isn’t hurt. 

That living with his actions isn’t exactly what he deserves. This past week further proving his impulsive decisions only manage to drive people away from him, _as they should_. 

There’s a reason Zuko feels so drawn to acting. He’s given the opportunity, over and over again, to become someone new, someone without any expectations, someone without any ability to disappoint or destroy in any meaningful, real way. He lives on stage as a walking perception—crafted by his own making—in complete control of what others can see, what they can take away from him. When he’s on stage, he’s no longer _Zuko_ , and that’s a feeling of respite he will never stop chasing. 

There’s sudden movement on his left side and he flinches instinctively, relaxing as he realizes it’s only Uncle. Uncle, who moves the theory textbook to the edge of the table, and places a steaming bowl of okayu with umeboshi and a fresh jasmine tea in front of him. Zuko pushes the old cup to the side, gripping the piping hot sides of the new one uncomfortably tight. He prepares himself for the confrontation or unhelpful life advice his uncle is predictably about to give him, if the food is anything to go by. He only ever makes the dish when he wants Zuko to talk about his _feelings_. 

The chair in front of him squeaks as it’s pulled from its place flush against the table and groans under the newly added weight. His uncle settles himself down with his own bowl of okayu before speaking.

“Nephew,” he says. 

Zuko looks up at him sharply. “What?” 

“I can’t help but notice your presence in my cafe this past week,” he says, worn hands gripping a steaming cup of ginseng. The familiar, earthy scent drifting around them provides a small comfort. “Are you expecting someone?” 

“ _No_.” He visibly deflates. He doesn’t have the strength to keep this act up around his uncle anymore—he hasn’t since he was a teenager. “Sort of.” 

“I see,” he says. “That boy you were with last week, is he a friend?” 

“I wouldn’t call him that.” Zuko turns his gaze down to the table, eyes drawn to the scratch that he traces over by habit. 

“Ah,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. “You know there is nothing wrong with making friends. I know you have your reservations, but this life is not worth living if one does not open themselves to new experiences.” 

Zuko glares, resisting the urge to fold his arms over his chest like a petulant child. “You of all people know why I _can’t_ do that.” 

His uncle’s gaze is sad as he meets Zuko’s own. “I know that you have been through too much in your short life, that is true.” He reaches a rough hand across the table to gently pry Zuko’s grip from his cup, patting his now freed hands. “But, you must not let your past prevent you from living. Regardless of how much pain you have in your heart, unless you allow yourself the chance, it will not heal.” 

Zuko pulls his hands into his lap, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over them. “I said his name.” 

“Oh?” His uncle says, eyebrows raising in genuine surprise. 

“I said his name and then I _left_.” He says, frustration leaking into his tone. “I _left_ and I didn’t even apologize for doing that to him.” 

“For doing what to him?” His uncle asks. “It is not a crime to say someone’s name. Did he say yours?” 

Zuko shrugs one shoulder, pressing his lips into a tight line. 

“So you were returning the sentiment?” Uncle asks. “I do not understand the problem.” 

“He’s avoiding the cafe because of me, because of what I did,” Zuko admits. The guilt he has attempted to push away spreads through him like a parasite, the urge to curl into himself almost impossible to ignore. 

“Nephew, you can not blame yourself for the decisions of other people. If he felt uncomfortable by your interaction, then there is nothing you can do to change it, but that does not mean it is _because_ of you, or that you have anything to be sorry for, do you understand?” 

He refuses to look back up at the man as he feels his face flush and his ears grow hot under the intensity of his attention. He knows, logically, that he was only returning the gesture that Sokka had initiated. But, he can’t shake the burden of knowing that Sokka saying his alias had no consequences, but Zuko choosing to say Sokka’s name could have been dire. 

Even though Sokka hadn’t bonded to him, the fact that he _could have_ is what keeps Zuko up at night and fills him with icy dread. 

When he finally answers his tone is quiet, resigned. “I knew better than to do it in the first place.” 

“Your heart is never wrong. There is a reason you chose to do what you did in that moment. Perhaps you were just being polite, but even if you weren’t, if you were trying to make a connection with him, then that’s okay, too. Us humans are very complex, but when it comes to our desires we truly are the simplest beings in the world,” he says. “Do not close yourself off from your heart—embrace it.” 

Zuko scoffs. His uncle’s advice is normally outlandish but closing himself off from his heart? _What does that even mean?_ He hasn’t closed himself off from anything, he is only self-aware enough to know that he _can’t_ make connections. The closer he became to people, the easier it would be for him to eventually disappoint—or hurt—them. 

He dips his spoon into the okayu and brings it to his lips instead of answering. His uncle, perceptive as always, takes the hint and rises from the table. 

“I believe in my old age I've gotten too comfortable taking lengthy breaks in my own cafe,” he says. 

Uncle clasps a hand on his shoulder as he moves past him, and Zuko relaxes into his touch. He knows he will take it as an acknowledgment of their conversation, his gratitude often nonverbal, expressed only through his body language. 

Alone with his thoughts, Zuko spoons another bite of the porridge into his mouth, making sure to scoop out an umeboshi this time. He bites and the fruit bursts over his tongue, the salty flavor one of the last semblances of childhood he allows himself to indulge. 

****

_“Zuko, I know you don’t feel well, but this will help.” His mother said, holding a steaming bowl in front of her._

_He wrinkled his nose at it, small fists glued to his sides. “Nuh-uh, I don’t want it, Mama.”_

_His mother set the bowl on the table and scooped him into her lap. He was already sniffling, his nose had been running for the past few hours and he’d felt miserable—sick and exhausted._

_“When I was a little girl, back home in Iwakura, my mother would make this for me every time I didn’t feel well. I loved it so much, I pretended to be sick some days just so she would make it.” She said, brushing his hair from where it was stuck to his cheeks with dried tears and snot. “I think if you tried it, you would really like it, my love.”_

_He rubbed at his eyes, peering into the bowl suspiciously. The substance was white and mushy-looking, with three round and red…_ somethings _placed on top._

_“What is it?” He asked._

_“It’s called okayu, and the little fruits are umeboshi.” She said gently, pinching at his cheeks._

_He swatted at her hands, a giggle pulling free from his chest._

_She hummed and held the bowl out for him again. Gently, he took it from her grasp, the still-steaming mixture wafting against his face. He dipped the spoon in and held a bite up to his mouth, eyes crossed as he tried to examine it from its place near his lips._

_His mother laughed and nudged the spoon past the line of his lips. He chewed thoughtfully, the salty flavor of the ume strange at first but delicious when paired with the muted texture of the okayu. He_ loved _it._

_In fact, he loved it so much he also requested it for breakfast most mornings, and his mother always humored him._

_Until she didn’t._

****

He blinks, staring down into his bowl, appetite gone as quickly as it came. 

As he’s pushing the bowl away from him, his phone buzzes in his pocket. The caller ID flashes across the screen and he sighs, accepting the call begrudgingly. 

“What do you want?” He asks in lieu of a greeting. 

“Hiya hotman!” An infuriatingly chirpy voice chimes from the other end of the line. “Are you busy right now?” 

Zuko looks around at the state of his table, his textbook hanging precariously on the edge and his half-eaten bowl cooling in front of him. 

“Yes, very busy,” he says.

“Good! So you know how I’ve wanted you to meet my girlfriend for a while now, right?” Aang asks, barreling on without waiting for a response. “Well, with midterms being over and all, I was hoping you’d come with me to hang out with her tomorrow?” 

Zuko is ready to decline, but his uncle’s previous advice is still fresh in his mind. _Oh, what harm can it do?_

“Sure, that sounds fine–uh fun, I mean,” he says. 

“Shut up! Really?” 

“I already agreed, don’t make me take it back.” Zuko threatens. 

“You know I just worry about you spending too much time by yourself.” Aang’s voice takes on the motherly tone he usually reserves for when he’s trying to get Zuko to drink more water, or go to yoga, or make friends, or—well, he guesses it checks out then. 

“I have Uncle,” he defends weakly. 

“Doesn’t count!” 

Zuko blows air harshly from his nose, valiantly resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of it. “Whatever. Do you remember what I said about taking it back? That option is looking more appealing—” 

“No!” Aang interrupts. “I’ll stop! Please still come, _pleaseee_.” The drawn-out word makes Zuko roll his eyes, not that the other boy can see it, but it makes him feel better nonetheless. 

“Only if you stop doing that.”

Aang laughs in response, “I’ll text you the details tomorrow, I can’t wait!” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you then,” he says. 

Aang hangs up and Zuko drops his head to the table. 

_What is he getting himself into_?

He supposes if he’s going to try this whole, _‘opening up his heart’_ thing Uncle suggested, hanging out with his only friend (and his only friend’s girlfriend, ugh) will be a relatively easy place to start. Not that he wants to take the old man up on his kooky advice, but with the way he’s felt lately, any distraction will be more than welcome. 

Who knows, it may even be good for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how heavy this one was y'all, I promise the plot will pick up moving forward! I wrote like half of the next chapter already bc initially it was supposed to be in this one, but I decided against it lol so I'm aiming to update in a week or so ❤️
> 
> talk to me on [tumblr!](https://zukkau.tumblr.com)  
> —
> 
> \- [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ErX0kdOIle0) is a demonstration of an Alaskan yoyo that Sokka uses in this chapter
> 
> \- tutiiŋ means my dear child/grandchild in Iñupiaq according to [this](http://ankn.uaf.edu/ANL/mod/glossary/view.php?id=20) glossary 
> 
> \- [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1v0MT0HrfRMveIA0IJH-flMVk5MmWiFQQhHbmmglJYXU/edit?usp=sharing) is the general research 
> 
> \- okayu is a Japanese comfort food, and it's essentially a rice porridge. the umeboshi are pickled ume fruits and typically eaten as a topping for the okayu!
> 
> —
> 
> I hope this chapter was enjoyable, please let me know if there are any inaccuracies in the explanations or depictions of these characters/cultures and if there are any additional clarifications needed on anything else mentioned<3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i'm back! thanks again to all of you for the support so far on this story, I'm forever glad y'all appreciate these idiots just as much as i do!! 
> 
> This is a little (read: a lot) more lighthearted than the previous chapters, so... enjoy <3 (i guess?) 
> 
> —
> 
> this wasn't necessarily beta read, but special thanks to [clem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefindhope/pseuds/lovefindhope) and [scarlet](https://tysukis.tumblr.com/), for reading this over for me and giving me encouragement, so much love to you both!

_—Burning. He is burning—the sensation spreading across his skin, sinking into every pore, every crevice of his body, like flames licking across a swath of dry grass, igniting everything in its path._

_Unavoidable._

_Uncontainable._

_It doesn’t seem possible that he would have enough nerves left to continue feeling, doesn’t seem possible that he wouldn’t be numb by now. Being unfeeling would be a mercy, why doesn’t he deserve mercy?_

_It would almost be better to drown, the pressure on his lungs would feel as sweet as the weight of a body against his—the heaviness of intimacy—a reprieve from the incessant, constant burn._

_He opens his mouth, his scream silent in its agony, whispered out until—_

Sokka wakes suddenly to the sound of banging on his bedroom door, the harsh light of the late afternoon sun burning into his eyelids. His dream receding until all that’s left is the _feeling_ , his heart a speeding thrum in his chest. 

He blinks the sleep from his eyes, and he can no longer remember what had worked him up in the first place. _Huh, weird_. 

The banging continues, and he pulls his pillow over his face groaning loudly, hoping the sound echoes through to the other side. 

“Sokka, I swear if you don’t get up right now then _I’ll throw away all your seal jerky!_ ” Katara yells, increasing the volume of her knocks. 

Sokka rolls out of bed with a speed that could rival sound and flings open his bedroom door to meet Katara’s unamused expression with his own half-awake glare. 

“You wouldn’t dare touch my jerky,” his voice rises an octave in panic. “Gran-Gran made it and you wouldn’t risk offending her, would you?” And no, he isn’t pleading. He wouldn’t plead with his baby sister. Unless seal jerky was involved, then maybe yes... he is pleading. 

“You’ve been sleeping like the dead for hours.”

“Hey, a man needs his rest,” he says. “Plus, it’s not like I need to be awake, it’s Saturday. Saturdays are for _sleep_ , Katara. I thought we’ve been over this.” 

“They’re _not_ for sleep, just—” she makes a frustrated noise, crossing her arms over her chest, “you promised you’d help with my physics homework today.” 

There’s a pause and he waits for the inevitable reasoning he had to wake up right this moment, when there’s a whole day left to do homework. 

“Aang’s coming over later tonight, so we have to get it done before then.” 

_Ah, there it is._

Sokka rolls his eyes, as much as he likes the kid, he’s still not keen on his sister being bonded and spending every free moment she has with him. And— _shit_ , his half-awake brain had momentarily forgotten about the… events of this past week. He feels as though he’s been doused in ice water. As a distraction, he rakes a hand through his loose hair, fingers snagging on the knots in the curls. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m just gonna shower, and then I’ll be out to help you.” 

Katara levels him with an unimpressed look before shaking her head. A small, fond smile tugs at her lips. “Yeah, you do that. I wouldn’t want to sit next to you like this anyways, stinky.” 

He squawks indignantly at her, but she’s already halfway down the hallway by the time he gathers himself up enough to respond. 

He is _not_ stinky. 

****

A freshly showered Sokka sits at their kitchen table, currently making a very valiant effort not to rip his hair from his neatly brushed wolf tail because he’s explained the formula for force _fifteen times_ in the last twenty minutes, and Katara is _still_ not getting it. 

Not to mention the fact that the discussion of force reminds him of a certain unspeakable someone Sokka is refusing to think about right now. 

He _can’t_ spiral and explain physics to his baby sister at the same time, he’s only one person.

“Sokka, I literally don’t get it. I plug these numbers into the formula and I get a completely different answer than you.” She squints at her notebook and then back up to her computer screen. “And why is it negative?” 

“Negative?” Sokka splutters, craning his neck to look down at her notebook. He pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to even process how she got a _negative_ number. 

_This girl’s going to be a doctor someday,_ he thinks. _Spirits, help those poor patients_. 

“Okay, so again. The force is equal to—” he pauses, noticing that she’s picked up her phone, smiling down at the stupid little screen instead of listening to her brother’s _extremely helpful advice_. “You know, I don’t _have_ to help you.” 

She ignores him, typing out a response as her phone chimes again. 

“If you fail your quiz because texting is more important than learning the car crash example, then that’s on you.” He huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. _Honestly, the nerve of this girl, acting like physics isn’t the most interesting subject on the planet._

Katara locks her phone and looks back up at him, not even pretending to seem apologetic. 

“Sorry, it’s just Aang,” she picks up her pen again “What were you saying?” 

“You know what, I actually don’t feel like repeating myself. If the boy is more important, then by all means have _him_ help you!” 

“You’re so dramatic.” 

“And you’re so rude!” He narrows his eyes into a pointed glare, which she infuriatingly doesn’t bat an eye over. “What’s so urgent?” 

“Aang wanted to know if it’s okay for him to bring his friend over later.” 

“You told him ‘no,’ right?” he raises an eyebrow at her. 

She picks at her nails absently. “I told him ‘of course,’ obviously.” 

“And why would you do that? I’m not going to be stuck entertaining Aang’s friend while you two are off making—” he gestures erratically, almost knocking the pen from her hand, “—kissy faces at each other!” 

“You know how I said you were ‘so dramatic’ like less than two minutes ago? Well, you’re proving my point,” she sighs. “He said he’s really cool and that we’d like him if that helps?” 

Sokka shakes his head, “No way, Katara. If Aang is bringing someone over then I need several degrees of separation.” He pauses for a moment in consideration before continuing. “I’m inviting Suki and Yue.”

“It’s not like we’re having a party, Sokka! You don’t need to invite people over!” She throws her hands up, very clearly exasperated with him. But, hey, it’s not his fault that she put herself in this position. 

“It’s my apartment, too! If I want to invite my friends over, then I’m gonna!”

“What, so being around another couple is going to help? What about not wanting to entertain the friend? Sounds like you’re just going to make it worse for yourself.”

Sokka makes a noise that’s some strange hybrid between a screech and a grunt and thuds his head down on the table, crossing his arms over it. 

His next words are muffled, and Katara prods him in the armpit. “I can’t hear you like that, idiot.” 

He turns his face out from the safety of his arm fort and repeats himself. “Suki and Yue wouldn’t do that to me.” 

Katara pats his head, smoothing the flyaways that mused from him rubbing his head against his arms. “Do you want me to tell Aang to invite Toph too?” 

“Might as well.” He sighs heavily, the smoothed hairs blowing back onto his forehead. “It’ll be a party.” 

  
  


****

Sokka suggested he and Katara pick up snacks for their friends to be good hosts, _not_ to suddenly commit to a plant-based existence. On the walk to the store, his sister insisted that they have to pick vegan options so Aang doesn’t feel left out because ‘ _most snack foods are vegan anyway, Sokka_.’

 _Not the good kind_ , he couldn’t stop himself from thinking. 

She’d left him to pick out the salty foods while she went to find a few sweets, and he’s now wandering aimlessly like a lost child with several bags of chips loaded into his arms. (And no, he won’t read the aisle signs). 

He eventually finds her standing in the middle of an aisle, seemingly debating between Oreos and Nutter Butters. Before he can loudly interject his opinion—because if she picks Nutter Butters over _Oreos_ he will have to have strong words with her—he notices her fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. He just barely catches the edge of what must be her mark on the top of her right forearm, but she pulls the sleeve over it before he can see what exactly it depicts. 

He clears his throat behind her, and she visibly jumps, whirling around to face him. 

“Don’t do that!” 

“I didn’t even do anything!” If he could, he’d hold his hands up in a defensive gesture, but seeing as they’re still loaded down with food, the action is impossible. 

Her eyes narrow and she grabs the Oreos from the shelf, tucking them into her basket alongside a vegetable tray. The very vegetable tray responsible for the loss of the delicious-looking meat and cheese one Sokka found when they’d first arrived, which Katara had snatched away from him with a pointed glare. 

She glances approvingly over the items he places in her basket, and he’s secretly grateful she chooses not to lecture him over a bag of potato chips. 

Sokka looks down at her forearm again, now completely covered, and can’t help but think of his own. He wonders if Katara’s is similar in size, or if his body thought it was comical to curse him, a _half-bonded_ person, with the world’s largest mark. 

But then he feels a pinch in his side, and his train of thought is effectively broken. Katara gives him a weird look, somewhere between concern and confusion, her eyes searching for an answer she can’t determine—if the set of her mouth is any indication. He knows that look, and he knows he needs to distract her before she can ask him any loaded questions. 

“So, whose drink of choice do you think we should buy? Suki’s or Toph’s?” 

The moment breaks. 

“Both,” she shakes her head, amused, “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to deal with either of them feeling scorned.” 

They shop for a few more minutes, making sure to grab Red Bulls for Suki and Mountain Dew for Toph (gross), as well as a few other generic options. 

Sokka pretends he doesn’t notice Katara slipping Ginger Ale into the basket for Aang. Honestly, he didn’t think the kid could get any weirder, but he also apparently likes the most boring soda in the world. The fact that he doesn’t say anything is the only true indicator of his change in mood, in any normal circumstance he wouldn’t have let it slide.

Katara notices his brooding—of course she does—and she lightly squeezes his bicep as they walk towards the front of the store to checkout. 

“Are you okay?” The light, joking tone she’s had with him most of the day is gone. 

He gives her a tight smile in return, but before he can answer the cashier waves them forward. They load their items onto the belt, a tense silence bracketing them. Sokka knows Katara won’t drop it until he can give her an adequate explanation, so in the blessed few minutes it takes the cashier to scan their items he attempts to concoct a plan. 

He’s distracted by the magazines on the display behind the cashier, so the plan-making idea goes out the proverbial window. 

As expected, she nudges him again once they start their walk back to the apartment. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine I just—” he pauses, trying to think of something to distract her. “I’m just sad about the meat tray.” He winces. _Not good, not believable, c’mon you’re supposed to be the plan guy here_. 

“Sokka,” she starts. “C’mon, what’s bothering you?” 

“I don’t know, nothing I guess.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, the warmth of his hand feels like a brand against the sudden chill of his skin. “I saw the edge of your mark in the store, and it made me think of Mom.” 

“Oh.” She absently rubs at the covered space on her forearm, her expression contemplative.

“Just... doesn’t it bother you at all to be bonded?” he continues much quieter, “doesn’t it scare you?” 

Katara’s gaze softens, and she loops her arm with his. Gently, she rubs his arm where her hand can reach and leans her familiar weight into his side. 

“I was at first,” she says. “But then I got to know Aang and it’s like–it’s like everything they say is true, you know? As cheesy as it sounds, it really feels like he completes me, like we’re two separate people but when we’re together it’s like we’re whole.” 

He hums, head tilting in consideration. “Did it hurt? You know, the mark?” 

She attempts to pull him to a stop, but the motion causes his feet to lose purchase, and he skids on the thin layer of ice covering the sidewalk. Katara’s grip on his arm the only thing preventing him from falling on his face. _What is_ with _him and falling lately?_

They regain their bearings, the near-disaster almost breaking the serious atmosphere they’d created as they choke out laughs in the aftermath. But he can never get off that easily with Katara, unfortunately. 

“Why do you ask?” She squints at him, seeing too easily through his not-so-innocent line of questioning. 

“No reason! Just curious. You know I don’t care about the whole bonding thing,” he says. “I’ve just never asked you before... um–what it was like, I mean.” 

Katara shakes her head, not fully believing he’s ‘just curious’ but also knowing that pushing him isn’t going to get her anywhere. 

“It burned.” Her face scrunches uncomfortably at the memory. “Actually it wasn’t pleasant at all, but Aang was going through it at the same time so it was definitely bearable and we laughed about it afterward.” 

“Laughed?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because we both had the most ridiculous expressions while it was happening, it looked like we’d either stubbed our toes or, I don’t know, hit our funny bones at the same time.” Laughter takes over her tone at the fond memory. 

Sokka laughs with her, not because of her story but at the truly cosmic irony of his situation. He’d had to bear the pain of his mark alone, with a soulmate who didn’t bond back to him, who he wasn’t sure he’d ever see again, while Katara had bonded with her soulmate at the back of a shared classroom and could laugh about it like it wasn’t a life-altering, traumatizing event. 

“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think you were asking because you’re suddenly interested in bonding, but that can’t be it, huh?” 

“No way.” 

He’s shocked by how much he still means it. 

Their building comes into view, and Sokka pulls away from her, dumping his grocery bags into her unsuspecting arms. 

“See you upstairs, loser.” 

He races away from his dumbfounded sister, only feeling a little guilty about it. 

She yells something in return that he doesn’t hear, he’s already too far ahead. But he knows if he stayed around her for too much longer he might just confess. His sister is the one true comfort in his life; the only person who makes him feel safe enough to think that he could tell her what happened, without fear of judgment. 

But he knows he can’t. He can’t afford for anyone to find out—regardless of how supportive they’d be—the idea of receiving looks of pity, of disappointment makes his skin crawl from embarrassment. 

No, he’ll keep this secret. Eventually, he may even learn to move on. 

And no one will ever have to know. 

****

Aang is supposed to be here in thirty minutes and Zuko has picked up his phone at least fifteen times in the last twenty to tell him not to come. He doesn’t know why he feels so nervous, the walls literally feel as though they’re closing in around him, like the stereotypical description of anxiety in every novel he’s ever read. _Is his room smaller or something?_

It’s been a while since he’s hung out with someone he doesn’t know, Aang the only person he really lets himself be around comfortably. Aang is familiar, _safe_. He came into Zuko’s life at exactly the moment he needed him—nudging himself into his heart where only a select few have ever managed to reside—and he still hasn’t left.

Zuko wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Aang’s friendship was like being close to the sun: his effortless warmth never failing to make him feel seen and loved. 

He still can’t believe they’d met at all, their paths crossing at such a perfect moment that it felt almost scripted. Zuko had gone to a performance of Les Miserables at the local theatre in Anchorage, and his seat happened to be next to Aangs. Aang, who cried loudly for the entirety of the play, who held on to Zuko’s unwilling hand throughout (and no, he wasn’t crying too, he _wasn’t_ ) and didn’t let go until it was over. He’d been too enraptured in the story to really care enough to tell him to stop, but Aang had been so grateful for his ‘support’ that he’d invited him to his apartment for dairy-free ice cream afterward. _So they could heal together_ , he’d said. 

That was over a year ago, now, and the two have become nearly inseparable (Uncle had joked once that if platonic bonding was real, they would’ve figured out a way to do it by now). But, in the past two or so months, they had spent a considerably diminished amount of time with one another. Even though he thought it impossible, the prospect always seeming so out of reach, Aang met his soulmate. He was so enamored with the girl that Zuko couldn’t even hold it against him that—in a way—he’d been replaced. How could he, when his best friend lit up in the best way when he spoke of his bond, how he seemed impossibly happier now that he knew her. 

Aang didn’t have an easy life, to say the least. And yet, he was still the most positive, uplifting person Zuko had ever encountered. He wondered, often, how he had compartmentalized himself so well as to seem unbothered—though Zuko knew from many of their numerous heart-to-hearts that he often was. 

He’d been adopted as a small child by a couple in Washington, who tragically passed shortly after welcoming him into their home. They’d had no family, so Aang had been shuffled from family to family until finally being placed in a boys home run by monks here in Alaska. There, he’d found Gyatso, the man who would become like a father to him, who taught him beliefs and morals, who raised him into the person he is now. Aang often says that without Gyatso, he would’ve never connected with the culture he felt so far removed from, felt as though he’d lost in his earlier years. 

So, yes, seeing his friend finally release the breath he’d seemingly held his entire life, could only make Zuko immeasurably glad to be there to witness it with him. Although, he’d never shown Zuko his mark. The monks taught him that marks are personal— _sacred—_ something to be shared between partners and not with the world. 

In a way, he can respect it. Even though the possibility of receiving his own mark is a thought so terrifying it haunts him in wakefulness and in rest, seeing the way it could be used to bring people closer together is, admittedly, a comfort.

Zuko startles when his uncle walks into his room, _without knocking_ , and sits in his desk chair. 

“Will Aang be here soon, Nephew?” he asks. 

“Probably, but you know Aang. He can never commit to a time.” 

“Ah, I see.” 

Zuko straightens out a book by his window, idly running a finger over the thick, stacked pages, the sound soothing his rattled conscience. 

“Do you remember our talk yesterday?” 

Something about the question pins Zuko to the spot. The feelings of guilt he’d attempted to repress for the past however-many-days rushing up to meet him as if they’d never been gone at all. 

“Yes.” 

“You are meeting someone very important to your friend tonight. I hope it is an enjoyable time, and that the two of you have a chance to become close, if you choose,” he pauses—briefly—as if to ponder what proverb he wants to dump on Zuko this time, “maybe tonight will be the first of many memorable moments between you all, serving as stepping stone for the future.” 

_Ugh, not this again_. 

“It’s not that big of a deal, Uncle. I’m just doing this to make Aang happy, I don’t expect to become lifelong friends with his _girlfriend_.” 

Uncle smiles, the aged creases around his eyes and mouth deepening with the warm expression. “Perhaps. But, we never know what Fate has in store for us, do we Nephew? She is as surprising as life itself, and it would be foolish to ignore the possibilities she lays in front of us.” 

“I don’t have time for this right now. I appreciate it, I really do, but like I said it’s really not—” he stops, noticing the time displayed on the tiny alarm clock screen. “Oh no, he’s supposed to be here in, like, five minutes,” panic leaks into his tone, “I’m not even dressed!” 

Uncle laughs heartily, the sound grating in his current state, but as familiar as the lingering scent of Jasmine that followed him into the room. “I’ll leave you to it then,” He stands and hovers briefly in the doorway before disappearing down the hall. 

Zuko forces himself not to flop onto the bed in resignation, feeling as though he has to go with Aang to prove something to himself, although what that something is he has no answer. 

Quickly, he dresses in his warmest black and red patterned sweater and black jeans, which he cuffs over his boots. He stares at himself in the standing mirror in the corner of his room, tugging on the edges of his sweater absently. His hair is loose around his face, and he knows it will be unruly after their walk in the snow, so he ties the top half up into a bun. The rest falls just below his shoulders, the sensation of it brushing against his neck sends a chill down his spine. Zuko appraises himself again and winces at the severity of his scar against his pale skin, which has only become more noticeable without his dark curtain of hair covering it. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop feeling exposed, branded by the deformed side of his face. Most days he’s able to ignore it, the tight, numb skin a dull reminder of its presence. But on others, especially in the harsh Alaskan winters, the skin becomes dry and cracked—every movement of his mouth, his forehead, his cheek feels like a hot poker, a phantom pain. 

His eyes close and he takes a deep, shaking breath to push the thoughts away. It’s not often he focuses on his scar this intensely. He supposes the knowledge that soon a stranger is going to notice it, think about it, maybe even ask about it—though most are not so blatant, common decency keeping even the most curious at bay—may be contributing to the increased awareness of his flaws. 

His phone blares in his pocket, and he answers without looking at the screen. Only two people call him, anyway, and one of them is downstairs. 

“Hello.”

“Hi! I’m outside, come let me in!” Aang all but yells into the phone. Zuko doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the volume of his voice. 

“You know you can just knock, right?” He knows Aang knows this, but still he goes down the hall to collect him. 

A body crashes into his own the moment the door opens, a soft ‘oof’ leaves his lungs at the force. Aang presses his face into the sensitive, exposed skin of his neck, his nose chilled from the arctic air. Zuko hisses and attempts to dislodge him, the pair undoubtedly look ridiculous—what with Zuko’s arms locked to his sides by the embrace of his friend while also bowing his back to remove his neck from the ice cube attached to Aang’s face. 

“Let go of me, you’re freezing,” he threatens, and eventually Aang lets go. He gives him a bright, toothy grin, cheeks rosy from the weather. His beanie is hanging onto his bald head by a thread, apparently knocked loose in their scuffle-like hug. Zuko reaches up—because the younger boy is infuriatingly taller than him—and tugs it back down over his ears. _No one can say he isn’t nice, sometimes_. 

“I’m surprised you showed up on time,” he jokes. 

“Yeah, um… about that—” 

A booming voice interrupts him, “Aang, how wonderful to see you again!” 

He hears before he sees Uncle step into the doorway, his footsteps creaking on the worn wood of their apartment. The old man holds his arms out for a hug, which Aang complies with eagerly. 

“You too, Uncle!” The affection is clear in his voice. 

Zuko walks past the pair to grab his keys from the table in the hallway and meets Aang’s eyes over Uncle’s shoulder. He’s giving him a suspicious look, one usually reserved for when he’s feeling guilty. _Is he hiding something?_

 _‘What?’_ Zuko finally mouths. 

Aang looks caught, his mouth opening and closing rapidly, overexaggerated and ridiculous as always. “Right! I uh–I just remembered that we’re gonna be late, so um—” 

Zuko lifts a single eyebrow, still maintaining eye contact with his friend. 

“Well, do not let me keep you boys from your night.” Uncle turns to Zuko, head tilted just slightly to the side. “I really do hope you’ll enjoy yourself, Nephew. Remember what I said.” 

“I’ll be fine!” he huffs. “Besides, it’s not like it’s some big thing, it’ll just be us and his girlf—” 

“—Okay! Bye Uncle, we’ll see you later!” Aang interrupts, moving back down the hallway towards the door.

Bewildered, Zuko follows his lead, shrugging at his uncle who seems completely unphased by his friend’s strange behavior. 

Zuko grabs his coat from the hook as Aang shuffles from foot to foot behind him like a toddler who’s ten seconds away from tattling on himself. As soon as they’re outside—out of earshot of Uncle—Zuko whirls on him. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you, or am I just supposed to guess?” 

“What do you mean?” Aang asks, forcing his hands into his gloves, breath coming in quick puffs that cloud the air around him from the cold as he follows behind Zuko’s quick steps. The younger boy may be taller, but that still doesn’t give him an advantage against Zuko’s caffeinated (and irritated) pace. 

“You know what I mean! Don’t play dumb!” Zuko stops suddenly, head snapping back and forth, frustration (and something maybe like dread) settling deep within him. “I don’t know where I’m going!” 

“Well if you would’ve waited for me, I would’ve told you which way to go,” Aang says softly, tucking his arm into Zuko’s own and pulling him in the opposite direction than he’d stalked off in. 

Zuko tolerates the touch for all of ten seconds before he’s shrugging his arm off, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his heavy coat. In his haste, he’d forgotten to grab gloves, and his fingers feel as though they’re seconds away from freezing and falling off. 

“Well?” he asks again, impatience clear in his voice. 

“So, okay, don’t be mad but…” he pauses, before continuing in a rush. “there'smaybegonnabealotofpeopleatKatara'sapartment.” 

“What?” 

“I said, there’s gonna be a lot of people at Katara’s apartment. It sort of, got turned into an actual get together.” 

Zuko stops and covers his face with his hands, attempting to take deep breaths but the icy air stabs more than soothes his lungs. He knows it’s too late now to go back home, to return to the safety, the comfort of his tiny room in his uncle’s tiny apartment, where he can exist without the judgment of strangers. It’s humiliating to be afraid of something as normal as a social gathering amongst his peers, but he can’t shake the fear that grips him at the prospect of people looking a little too closely, asking just the right questions. How that could unravel everything he’s worked so hard to build. 

Aang reaches out, rubbing his shoulder in slow, soothing circles. _Well, at least he knew why he was being so shifty, he knew exactly what reaction Zuko would have to the news._

He steels himself—he can do this. He told Uncle he’s capable of making connections, and he told himself it’s something he needs to try. He can’t keep living the way he has been, and just because he’s meeting these people doesn’t mean he has to _know_ them. 

“All right,” he says. “Let’s get this over with.” 

****

“Sokka please get the door!” 

“Why can’t you get it? I’m kinda busy acquainting my ass with the couch over here.” 

“I’m setting up the food, the least you could do is let _your_ friends in!”

“Hey! They’re _our_ friends!” Sokka rolls his eyes and heaves himself to his feet, making sure to groan as loudly as possible so Katara can hear him from the kitchen.

“Welcome esteemed guests!” He yells, opening the door. He crosses his chest with his arm and bows deeply… or, well tries to bow because suddenly he finds himself scrambling for purchase after a well-placed shove lands squarely on his shoulder and sends him teetering. 

“Woah there, Snoozles. Watch your step. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

“Ha. Ha. Very funny, Toph.” Sokka’s lip is poking out in a very deliberate, very overexaggerated pout that he’s secretly glad Toph can’t see or else she might hit him again. He turns his well-practiced pout on Suki and Yue as they step into the apartment behind Toph, and both girls give him eerily similar unamused expressions; though Yue breaks first (as she always does) and smiles at him. 

“Yeah, take it easy, buddy. It’s still early,” Suki says. She pats his cheek patronizingly, pulling Yue into the kitchen by their linked hands. 

“None of you are my friends anymore. It’s just me against the world isn’t it?” 

The girls don’t answer, too busy chattering with Katara in the kitchen and _ignoring_ him. Maybe inviting them over was a bad idea. _At least Aang is bringing someone over, maybe he’ll be a welcome distraction from his so-called-friends._

Sokka joins them uninvited after none of them check on him, which, _rude_. It turns out to be a mistake. As soon as Katara sees him she gives him a _look_ —a guilty look that could either mean she’s going to ask him to do something or tell him she left something out of the fridge _again._

“Sokka, who’s my favorite big brother?” Her voice raises in pitch at the end of the phrase, and _oh_ —it must be the asking-him-to-do-something option. 

“No. No way,” he says. “Whatever it is you’re about to ask? No.” 

“I didn’t even ask you anything yet!” 

“Well, you were about to!” 

“I… may have a favor to ask,” she starts. “But! Before you say ‘no,’ it’s something for all of us!” 

He narrows his eyes, the pleading look she’s giving him one he has more than enough practice ignoring. 

“What is it?” He caves. 

“When we went to the store earlier we might have forgotten to grab ice, and we definitely can’t have drinks without it so—” 

“Woah, wait! Why do I have to get the ice? Why can’t you go?” 

“Because Aang is going to be here soon, I can’t go anywhere!” 

“You and your boyfriend are constantly ruining my life, did you know that?”

“So is that a yes?” 

“I guess!” He throws his arms up. “I don’t think I have a choice!” 

“We appreciate your sacrifice, Sokka,” Yue says seriously from her place seated on the counter. Suki stands between her legs, back leaning against the other girl. 

“Yes thank you, oh brave one,” Suki echoes. 

“I hate you guys. I don’t know if you remember, but we literally live in the _arctic_. There’s ice all around us!” 

“Oh save it for the snow, Snoozles. Don’t come back unless you’ve got the goods.” He has the foresight to step out of the way of Toph’s shove this time. 

“Whatever. Don’t have too much fun without me,” he warns, already making his way back to the front door.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, babes!” Suki calls before the door clicks shut behind him. 

_Stupid sisters, stupid ice, stupid party. Could his night get any worse?_

****

Zuko and Aang stand outside the door of an average, unassuming apartment. The sound of laughter filters through the door, creating an atmosphere of warmth Zuko is hesitant to disrupt. 

Aang meets his gaze and smiles, raising a hand to knock. 

“Aang!” A muffled voice shouts from inside before the door is ripped open. 

A girl stands in the open doorway, a faint flush present under the dark skin of her cheeks. Her hair is parted down the middle, with symmetric braids looped beneath her ears and pinned to either side of her head; the rest falling in loose waves down her back. Distantly, he thinks she looks familiar. _Have they had a class together?_

“Hi,” Aang says, the fondness in his voice with just one word so sweet it’s vaguely nauseating. 

Zuko can’t help feeling as though he’s interrupting, something akin to embarrassment prickles at the back of his neck. The girl makes eye contact with him and he’s struck with a sense of déjà vu. He _knows_ those eyes, but how?

“Hey, I’m Katara! You must be Lee,” she says. “Aang’s told me so much about you!”

Zuko looks between the two for a moment, wondering what exactly he’s told her about him, but deciding to save it for a different day. 

“It’s uh–it’s nice to meet you,” he winces, hating the awkward infliction. “Uh finally... I’ve also heard a lot, um, about you… too?” 

Katara smiles at him before stepping back from the doorway, inviting them inside the cozy space. 

He goes inside ahead of Aang, leaving the other boy to properly say ‘hello’ to his girlfriend. As soon as he’s within the confines of the living room, he realizes he’s being watched. There’s a small, blue felted couch against the far wall beneath the chilled window, and two girls sit—practically on top of each other—in the center of it. There’s another girl, head tilted towards him but not necessarily looking at him perched on the arm. 

“Uh…” he starts, looking between the three, unsure where to start. He hates introductions, hates introducing himself, hates the inevitable questions with answers no one cares to know, which will be forgotten as soon as he’s out of sight. 

“That doesn’t sound like Aang, who are you?” couch-arm-girl asks, still not looking at him. 

“I’m Lee, Aang’s friend.”

“Oh right! I forgot he was bringing you,” says the short-haired girl. “I’m Suki, this is my girlfriend Yue, and that’s Toph.” She points to the other two girls in turn. Yue lifts her hand in a wave, and couch-arm-girl—Toph, he corrects—still doesn’t turn his way. 

“Wow, pleasantries suck.” Toph scratches at the back of her head, face finally turning towards him and—oh. She’s blind. Honestly, he should’ve noticed sooner, what with her folded cane on the ground beside her. “I can’t believe meathead isn’t back yet, what’s taking him so long?” 

“He’s probably dragging his feet on purpose because we made him leave.” 

“Nah, he has too much FOMO for that.” 

“FOMO? Did I miss the memo that we time-traveled back to 2012?” 

Zuko begins to zone out, the bickering between the others quick, sharp, difficult to focus on. 

_It’s going to be a long night._

****

The bags of ice are heavy, the plastic slipping through his gloved hands every few steps. Sokka hoists one onto his shoulder, while cradling the other in his arms like a very cold, very lumpy baby. It’s only his luck that the snow turns to sleet as he makes his way back home, the wind whipping it into his face and down the collar of his coat. 

Not for the first time today does he wish he could be anywhere else—be anyone else, while he’s at it. 

His arms are cramping, there’s snow in his eyes, and yet the only thing he can focus on—the thing that hasn’t left his thoughts _once_ in nine days—is _him_. The Moon reflects off of the iced sidewalk before him, bright and observant, a presence to his misery. 

_He’s fine, he can do this, he can move on_ , the words repeating like a mantra inside his head, hoping one day it’ll come true. 

Today is not that day, not for him. 

No, today it’s still fresh. The faint burning sensation still present in the sensitive skin of his chest, following him with every step, every thought, every _dream_. 

Not for the first time today does he wish he could forget, could be struck in the head or locked in a secret lab where a mad scientist takes his conscience, _anything_ to take it back. 

Numbly, he keys in the code to his building, knocking the excess snow from his boots before making his way up the narrow staircase. His steps thud heavily against the aged wood, his footfalls acting as a makeshift metronome to the tempo pounding in his head. 

Sokka stands before his apartment. 

Not for the first time today does he wish he could open the door, effectively transporting himself back to nine days before—back to the seemingly normal day where his sister woke him after he overslept his alarm—so he could tell her to let him sleep. 

The voices of his friends filter out, wrapping around him and reminding him of what he _loves_ about his life. Maybe he’s physically changed, but there are some reminders that he’ll be okay. A room full of the people he loves maybe one of the strongest. 

He shifts both of the bags of ice to one arm to open the door, using his foot to kick it closed. 

Sokka walks down the short hallway between the door and the living room, a rant spilling from his mouth before he’s even caught sight of his friends. 

“You guys will not believe what I went through to get these,” he rounds the corner, “the blizzard turned into a fucking sleet storm halfway here and now i’m _soaked_.” 

“So because of that, someone needs to make me hot chocolate right now,” he moves to grab the top of one of the bags in his left arm so he can set them down, “or else I might just—” 

He stops. 

In the space between Suki and Yue on their ancient, thrifted couch sits the very person he’s tried to force himself to forget—through every nightmare and daydream, every waking thought—for the past nine days. He sits between his friends as if it’s a spot he’s always held, as if his presence in his life is as intrinsically tied to him as his family, his beliefs, _himself_. As if there wasn’t a moment before, a moment after, but an _always._

A pulsing throb shoots from the center of his chest down to the tips of his fingers, and his left arm _gives_ —becoming boneless. The heavy clatter of the bags against the ground is almost indistinguishable from the crushing weight settling in his core. 

_How did he ever think it would be better to drown?_

His dark eyes meet golden-brown and somehow— _impossibly_ —it feels like he’s come up for air. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh the inherent homoeroticism of eye contact!! sorry to leave it like that y'all, I know it's very mean, BUT that means!! zukka interactions in the next chapter!! get excited!! 
> 
> AND we finally got to meet katara in this chapter, which I was so so excited for because writing their sibling dynamic was really fun and I just love them a lot and their love for each other makes my heart all mushy so!! I really wanted to focus on their personal relationships here before we move on just to round them out a little and continue with some of the necessary story-building (like aang's background) so bear with me. I'm really putting the slow in slow burn with this one. 
> 
> please feel free to scream at me on [tumblr!](https://zukkau.tumblr.com)  
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! so this chapter was.. a lot for me if any of you follow me on tumblr you probably know this one kicked my a** but it's here! we've got pining! yearning! warmth! gays! realizations! the works! 
> 
> Thanks so much for all of the support, I hope y'all enjoy <3
> 
> [ALSO ART EXISTS FOR THIS FIC NOW??](https://mygirlfriendthemoon.tumblr.com/post/638089318927384576/i-have-been-thoroughly-enjoying-until-you-say-it) please go give em all of the rbs/likes, she deserves it for being an INCREDIBLE artist! i love it so so much ! :') 
> 
> —
> 
> big love and thanks to [clem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovefindhope/pseuds/lovefindhope) for being my #1 cheerleader and [softlygasping](https://softlygasping.tumblr.com/) for beta reading this!

Sokka stands frozen—rooted in place by the weight of a stare, through eyes he wishes he had forgotten. He can’t think, he can’t move, one of the bags of ice sits uncomfortably over his foot, and yet he still can’t look away. 

“Did he just fall, or what?” Toph asks. “Actually, scratch that. It wasn’t heavy enough to be him.”

His momentary trance breaks. A moment—which felt like hours—lasting seconds at best. 

“No, I didn’t fall. My arm is just unfreezing so it… gave out on me.” He bends down to grab the bags from the ground, the wet plastic uncomfortable against his palms. “Plus, you’re supposed to drop ice anyways to break it up,” he shrugs, feigning nonchalance, “so, you’re welcome.” 

Sokka pretends he doesn’t see the withdrawn expression on Lee’s face—the way he seems to sink into the fraying cushions as if he could disappear within them if he pressed back firmly enough. He knows, distantly, that the other has no way of knowing what happened to him the day they met, and he can’t imagine how his reaction is making him feel at this moment. He knows all of this and still, selfishly, can’t bring himself to address it. 

The comfortable banter picks up again, but Sokka can’t focus on the conversation over the blood rushing through his ears. He’s dazed, feet heavy, equipt with the same lead that has made a home in his core. 

Somehow he makes it to the kitchen, going through the motions of putting away the ice and setting up the drinks on the counter. His hands—chapped rough from the cold—land on the counter before him, gripping the edge so tightly the corner ridges into his skin. 

_It was nice meeting you too, Sokka._

A figure disappearing from sight. 

_—meeting you too, Sokka._

A burn igniting his skin. 

_—you too, Sokka._

A brand. 

_—Sokka_. 

A mark. 

_—_ **_Sokka_** _._

“Sokka!” 

He glances up sharply, dropping his hands from the counter and in his haste, almost knocks over the 2-liter he’d just set up. 

Yue stands opposite him, waving her hand in front of his face. 

“What’s up with you?” She tugs his arm. “You have to come meet Lee! You’re being rude.”

_Rude. Yeah, let’s go with that,_ he thinks. 

“Did everyone forget I was sent on a death mission for ice? _Which no one has thanked me for by the way_ ,” he pulls out his hair tie, fluffing his damp hair with still-numb fingers, “besides, uh… we’ve already met.” Somehow he manages to avoid looking at _him_ when he speaks.

“What? When?” Aang asks from the chair in the corner of the room. “Why?” 

“That’s a lot of questions, buddy.” 

The room is quiet for a moment, Sokka unsure how to continue. How can he explain what happened without being too obvious? Without exposing to everyone, to _Lee_ , what happened that day? Sokka is a lot of things, but subtle is not one of them. 

“Uh–he tried to kill me, actually,” Lee offers. 

For his part, Sokka doesn’t flinch at the sound of his voice. The rough tone has no business sounding familiar, sounding almost— _soothing_ to the cacophony in his head. 

Katara, from her place perched on the arm of Aang’s chair and feet thrown over his lap, turns towards him so quickly Sokka’s surprised her head doesn’t disconnect from her neck. “You _what_?” 

“It’s a long story!” he squeaks. 

Aang gives him a strange look—a look he’s never seen on him before—eyes flicking between Sokka and Lee with eyebrows drawn, as if he’s seeing the answer to a question no one has asked. 

“Actually, it’s not that long,” Lee looks between them, “he ran me over with his skateboard a few days ago.” He shrugs one shoulder, “no big deal.”

“Well that’s a weird coincidence,” Toph interjects, stretching her arms above her head. “You’re lucky Sparky didn’t get all banged up, Sokka.” 

“ _I–_ ” “ _He–_ ” 

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t really care.” 

“Anyway,” Yue stands, holding out her hands to Lee, who looks up at her with his good eye widening, “before Sokka interrupted,” she sticks her tongue out at him, “I was going to show you the motion sickness dance.”

Sokka is secretly thankful to her for the distraction, the focus falling from him and shifting to the two now standing in the center of the living room. 

“Motion… sickness,” his head tilts, “dance?”

“Yeah! You’ve seen the trend, right?” asks Suki, who moves to join them.

“For my TikTok!” Yue smiles, faint dimples appearing on her cheeks.

“What’s a ‘TikTok’?” he glances between the two girls who’re now surrounding him, “like the Kesha song?”

Sokka finds a seat on the now unoccupied couch, unintentionally sitting in the middle seat, the lingering imprint like a brand against his back, his legs. He tries to relax, to loosen the muscles pulled tight, like strings moments from snapping. A smile forces itself onto his features, laughter spilling free at the appropriate moments. Despite his efforts, if any of them looked close enough, it would be hard to miss the rigid set of his shoulders, the biting grip of his hands on his knees, the firm line of his mouth.

_I have emotional motion sickness._

The chorus of the song starts, Suki and Yue demonstrating the hand and body movements that coincide with the lyrics. 

_Somebody roll the windows down._

Lee attempts to follow, body stiff and uncomfortable, cheeks flushed a deep red. 

_There are no words in the English language._

He stumbles, catching himself on the arm of the couch, stammering out an apology so quickly the words blend together over the sound of the music. 

_I could scream to drown you out._

At that moment, Sokka looks up—the last line on repeat inside of his head—to find Lee’s gaze already on him, worried and too close. 

Sokka looks away. 

_****_

The girls are a welcome diversion to the incessant panic lingering in the recesses of Zuko’s mind, a panic which hasn’t left him since Sokka first walked through the door and looked at him as if he was a nightmare come to life. 

They attempt to teach him a dance, and for once he actually feels himself relaxing, the pace of his thoughts slowing to the beat of the song. 

He doesn’t end up learning it—his timing off and his rhythm lacking—not in the mood to really retain the movements like he usually would if he was learning a new role. Suki and Yue don’t seem to care about his apparent failure, the disappointment he always turns out to be. 

They find seats on the ground, Zuko near the chair Aang and Katara occupy, and Suki and Yue just to his right beside the couch—where Sokka sits with Toph. 

“It took Yue ages to learn this one too, don’t worry.” 

“That’s only because I was distracted by you showing it to me,” she pinches the sleeve of her girlfriend’s shirt to emphasize her point, “it’s unfair to hold your muscles over my head like this.” 

“I think I’m just not cut out to learn… What’s it called again? Sapphic dances?” he winces, both girls giggling at him. 

Suki pats his cheek, “it’s okay, babes. You boys just don’t get it.” 

Yue rolls her eyes at her fondly, gathering her blonde streaked dark hair into a bun on the crown of her head, tying it with a pastel scrunchie. He notices, as her hair is pulled from her neck, the jewelry dangling from her ears. 

“I like your earrings, are those moons?” 

She beams at him, pulling one free and holding it out for him. “They are! Well, sort of,” she pulls it closer to her own face as if to inspect it herself. “They’re like moons but if the moon was an apple, and it’s been bitten to the core?” 

His face scrunches in confusion at the explanation. 

“They’re an inside joke between us,” Suki says. “She started molding these as apple cores, but I said it would be better if they were moons,” she pauses, sharing a private look with Yue, “like moon and core… mooncore.” 

“My name also literally means moon, so mooncore is, like, the definition of my thing,” Yue finishes, looping the jewelry back in place. 

Zuko doesn’t pretend to understand, but he nods anyway. “You make earrings?” 

“Oh, yeah. I really enjoy creating things, it helps clear my head,” she says. “I learned traditional beading and jewelry making from my grandmother, and it sort of devolved into turning random objects into stuff I stick in my ears.”

“Random?” he asks. 

“Like, think if it belongs in the trash or on a really tacky grandma then it’s probably going to be in my ears,” she laughs, the sound bright in its joy. “Sokka loves them. I make him stuff all the time, he usually models them for my Etsy store.” The volume of her voice rises. “Isn’t that right, Sokka?” 

There’s no response from the boy on the couch, his face tilted towards them but his eyes aren’t focused, aren’t seeing them. 

“Sokka?” she prods, turning fully to raise her eyebrows at him. 

He startles, one hand quickly moving to brush his loose hair from his face, the damp strands knotted, his movements only musing them further. Zuko traces the line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the way his features appear softened from dark curls framing his cheeks. 

“What?” he finally asks, looking between the three, focusing on the girls—sliding past Zuko so quickly it feels intentional. 

“Earrings. Model. You.” She gestures at her own. “Right?” 

Distractedly, Sokka reaches up to brush against his bare lobes. “...Right.” 

Yue makes a frustrated noise at him, shooting Zuko an apologetic glance. “Honestly he has some of my finest pieces in his collection. Maybe if you ask nicely he’ll show you sometime.” 

“Oh, that’s—” 

“— _I don’t think that’s necessary,_ ” Sokka’s voice cuts him like a dull knife through already softened butter, flaying his shoddily crafted projection of normalcy. 

His ears burn from the dismissal, the weakly veiled venom shot his way. 

Zuko is paranoid on his best days, but right now he knows without a doubt that something is wrong, that there’s something irreversible that happened between them that he doesn’t understand. 

He doesn’t miss the sideways glance and pursed lips—the overall dissatisfied way he looks at him. 

After all, he has a lot of experience with dissatisfaction.

He feels the need to remove himself. He can’t taint their happiness with his presence anymore—Zuko only knows how to ruin happy moments, happy people, if the brooding figure of the boy on the couch is anything to go by. A person who doesn’t deserve to brood, not over _him_ , not when he deserves to live carefree— _untainted_. 

Zuko is keeping him from enjoying the company of his friends, and that thought lingers with him, needles itself inside, increasing the strength of his relentless anxiety. 

He needs to leave. 

A hand rests on his elbow, and he turns to meet the searching gaze of Aang. Aang, the one who always seems to read Zuko like a book, the one who is always there for him when he gets like _this_. He inclines his head in questioning, searching for an answer to Zuko’s rising discomfort. 

He feels as though he’s choking, he’s burning, his clothes are restricting him and he can’t _breathe_ , let alone speak. 

“Are you okay?” 

Zuko fights the urge to laugh. He hasn’t been okay for so long it’s hard to remember a moment when he could say with absolute certainty that he was. 

“I’m fine,” he blows a harsh breath from his nose, “I think I just need some air.” 

“We can leave if you want,” Aang says. His eyes are still searching, still looking too closely at him. “You know I won’t mind.” 

He can’t handle pulling his friend away from his girlfriend, not when they’ve spent the night wrapped around each other. He doesn’t need to leave, not yet, Zuko just needs _space._

“I’m just going to,” he looks around the room quickly for an excuse, eyes landing on the door to the balcony, “go outside for a minute.” In an attempt to appear unshaken, he smiles thinly at his friend, “I need to clear my head.”

Aang still looks skeptical, and for a moment Zuko thinks he’s going to argue with him, when he shrugs one shoulder. “Be quick, it’s cold out there.” 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” He stands, pulling his coat over his frame. 

With a final worried look, Aang leans back in his seat with Katara, jumping back into the conversation between her and Toph as if he’d never left. Zuko can’t help but envy the ease in which the other molds himself into any space, any setting, when he himself always manages to linger on the outskirts—sharp and misshapen. 

Zuko pulls open the sliding glass door, the tract catching the frame halfway. He pulls harder, clammy fingers slipping on the handle, and the door slides freely open, letting in a gust of icy wind. 

There’s a small table and two patio chairs on the covered balcony, but Zuko ignores them in favor of sitting against the wall on the right side of the space, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his face in the crevice between them. 

The covering keeps out the snow and ice but does nothing to prevent the biting air from whipping against him. He takes a moment, again, to chide himself for forgetting his gloves as he shoves his hands beneath the fold of his knees to warm them. 

He’s cold and miserable but admittedly—he deserves to be. 

****

Sokka releases his breath for the first time all night at the closing of the back door, the wind from outside seeming to sweep it away along with the lingering rigidness. He no longer has to busy himself looking at anywhere other than the center of the room, at the boy he thought he’d never see again. 

The guilt he’d attempted to repress inches to the surface, so present it’s difficult to ignore. He knows he hasn’t been fair, his refusal to acknowledge the presence of the other palpable in the small space. 

_No more fair than the mark unwillingly slashed across his skin_. 

He makes the mistake of sneaking a glance outside the glass door—noting the huddled frame on the ground—somewhere deep within his chest aches at the sight. If one wasn’t looking closely it would almost be easy to miss him, his black hair obscuring the pale tone of his skin, dark clothes blending into the shadows along the walls of the patio, identifiable only by bare hands exposed to the open air. 

“And then this girl—wait, Sokka, do you remember this?” Suki asks, distracting him from his staring. 

“Sorry, do I remember what?” 

Suki narrows her eyes, “The girl we saw on campus a couple years ago who was chasing that guy down and screaming his name at him?” 

“Oh right, yeah,” his face twists in discomfort, the memory hitting a little too close to how desperate he’d felt only a week ago. 

_Maybe she’d half-bonded, too_.

“It was sad. I felt bad for her.” She stares at him and he shrugs, “who knows what she was going through.” 

Her eyes search his for a moment too long before she replies, “yeah… I guess so.” 

Sokka winces, he knows this is one of the stories they usually tell together, one that usually never fails to incite laughter from a group. 

“Are you sure that girl wasn’t you, Sugar Queen?” Toph teases, snorting at the affronted gasp from Katara. 

He turns his head again, automatically searching for the lone figure. The figure who shivers so violently Sokka’s own limbs tense in sympathy. 

His neck prickles uncomfortably, and he turns to see Aang watching from his side of the room, eyebrows drawn in an uncharacteristically contemplative manner. 

_What does he know?_

“Are you feeling okay, Sokka?” Suki asks. 

His answering nod is overdramatic, suspicious. Thankfully, she doesn’t push, but her eyes flash to him every so often as he continues to remain detached from the conversations happening around him. 

He feels as though everyone is staring, knows what’s going on in his head. Distantly, he thinks Lee had the right idea by stepping outside when he did because Sokka’s skin feels flushed and tight—fragile. 

He needs a break. 

“I never got the hot cocoa I requested earlier, so,” he stands, “I’ll just go… make that. If anyone wants any, let me know.” 

“No, thanks. Enjoy your hot beverage though, snoozles,” Toph mocks, the rest of the group also declining his invitation. 

On a good day, the task would be muscle memory, the routine one he’s performed hundreds of times on hundreds of chilly nights, committed deep in his memory. But today, he notes every movement, every step he takes with painstaking detail, forcing himself to remain present, to stay tethered. 

He can’t allow himself to drift. 

Once the oat milk is boiling (Katara no longer keeps regular milk in the fridge), he turns to pour it over the cocoa powder. In his distraction, he almost sloshes the liquid over the side and onto his exposed hand. _He doesn’t need any more burns_. 

He holds a thermos—now filled with the comfort drink of his childhood—and for a moment, he hovers in the space between the kitchen and the living room, the door to his right catching his eye and holding his attention. He plans to walk past, but his body moves of its own volition towards it, eerily similar to the moment of detachment from days prior. 

Maybe it’s because he knows the boy on the other side is undeserving of his cold treatment, or maybe it’s just because he’s visibly cold and Sokka feels suffocatingly warm, as if his skin could alight.

Regardless of the reason, he finds himself pulling that same, familiar door with the same, familiar hitch in the tract to face the person who his body reacts to as though he is equally familiar. 

Lee jolts as the door closes, his expression a mixture of confusion and— _Spirits_ , something like hope.

“I brought cocoa… if you want some.” He stands to the side for a pregnant pause, resisting the urge to bite his lip as he tends to do when he’s nervous. “We only have oat milk though because Aang says it’s—“ 

“— _it’s the best milk alternative_ ,” they say at the same time, eyes meeting in shared mirth. For a second, everything feels _right_ —until he remembers.

_It’s_ _unfair how easy it is to be with him._

“Do you mind if I sit?” he gestures towards the empty space, “but, you know, the chairs would probably be more comfortable.” 

Lee works his jaw, turning to glare at the screen instead of looking at him. “I didn’t want to mess it up,” he mumbles, voice so soft Sokka almost doesn’t hear. 

“Mess it up?” he looks between Lee and the chair before shrugging, sitting heavily on the floor beside him, drawing his knees up in a similar position to mimic the other. 

Lee doesn’t answer, cheek still resting on his knees facing away. 

Sokka busies himself by pouring the cocoa into the cup-lid, the steam released from the action heavy in the cold air. He holds the cup out to Lee, using his hand to playfully waft the scent under his nose. 

“C’mon take a sip, I spent too much time on this for you to not even try it.” 

“I don’t remember asking for it in the first place,” he snaps, but there’s no bite, not really. 

He reaches for the cup in Sokka’s outstretched hand and their fingertips brush briefly, Lee’s chilled skin against the warmth of his own shocking enough that he almost drops it. A pale hand locks around the glinting surface as it teeters between their shared grasp, pressing firmly against the sides as if attempting to steal an ounce of its heat. 

Sokka rests his own chin against his knees, head tilted just slightly in his direction. Lee fiddles with the cup for a few more seconds, glaring down at the liquid within it as if it’s offended him in some way—as if it is the cause of the tension emanating from his tightly coiled frame. Finally, he brings it to his lips, blowing a thin stream of air over the surface before sipping. He hums and takes another sip, bigger this time, a flush slowly spreading over his cheeks as he warms. 

“This is really good,” he admits, looking at Sokka out of the corner of his eye. “I can’t remember the last time I had one.” 

Sokka has a response to that, he does—because who goes a long time without cocoa? But it dies in his lungs, his breath catching as he watches Lee swipe a drop of chocolate off of his bottom lip with a hesitant tongue, teeth biting into the soft flesh. 

He looks away quickly, not letting himself linger on the flush, the bow of his lips— _that’s enough, get it together, Sokka._

As much as he wants to, he can’t let himself pretend that everything is fine. He can’t let his eyes wander, annotating every slope, every plane, every wrinkle, every _scar_ on the other’s face. He isn’t an innocent person with an innocent crush on a beautiful, anonymous person: he is half-bonded. 

No matter what his brain, or his body, or _whatever_ wants, he knows for his sake—and for Lee’s—that he can’t let himself indulge, not in this. It isn’t fair to either of them, Sokka is incapable of being the person Lee needs, so much so that his skin is scarred in proof of his cosmic failure to the other. 

He’s pulled back by the quiet _snick_ of the thermos lid closing, Lee placing it in the space between them. The tension previously ebbing from his frame has returned and somehow more severe than before, if that was even possible. He cups his hands under his knees again, pulling himself against his joints as he stares at a nondescript spot on the patio floor, the space between eyebrow and scar furrowing. 

And Sokka—Sokka _breaks._

He can have his reservations, but he can’t be responsible for putting this look, this self-conscious posturing on the other. _It isn’t fair._

A lot of things in life aren’t fair, fairness itself a concept that has not embraced Sokka—he looks at Lee and thinks maybe it hasn’t embraced him either.

“Do you want to know what the secret is?” 

Lee startles, the break in the swollen silence sudden and jarring, “The secret to what?” 

“The secret to a good hot cocoa,” he says, a smile taking over his features. 

“What is it?” a smile tentatively returned. 

Sokka pauses, breathing in deep as if to say ‘ _here we go’_ or _‘we can’t take this back’,_ the chilled air settling deep within him—a reassurance as well as a reminder. 

“The perfect temperature.” 

****

The easy banter they’d shared in the tea shop returns eventually, slowly, both caught in reservations of their own. But what can’t be denied is their magnetism—encasing them in a space that’s made of just _them_. They talk about everything and nothing, the topics cycling quickly, neither one giving or receiving more than surface-level detail from the other. 

“I hate that the snow started so early this year,” Lee admits, turning to glare at the tufts of white falling from the sky. 

“It’s October, the snow always starts around this time.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Not like this! Usually, we have until at least November.” 

“C’mon, a little snow like this is nothing compared to up north,” Sokka nudges him gently. “Why live in Alaska if you don’t like snow?” 

At that, Lee’s expression shows the hint of closing, an expression he vaguely remembers from their first encounter, when Sokka had asked a question too personal. “I don’t… I–” 

“Hey, I get it,” he soothes. “I can’t lie though, late fall is always my favorite time of year.” 

Lee at least appears grateful for the distraction. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” a wistful smile makes a home on his features, “it’s hunting season.” 

“…hunting?” his tone curious, like he doesn’t want to know the details but still asking regardless. 

“Well I guess–it’s not _about_ the hunting, it’s more about _going_ hunting?” 

“...Okay?” 

“I should probably start at the beginning,” he says. “I have this weapon—well not a _weapon_ more like a hunting tool—that I use when whaling season starts to capture ducks and other, like, water-dwelling-birds, you know?” 

The other nods slowly, waiting for him to continue. 

“It’s called a bola, and it’s just _incredible_ ,” the gushing unpreventable, “before guns were invented and _ruined the art of traditional hunting,_ they were pretty standard tools. But, um, they’re not really in use anymore, not like they used to be. I just…” he pauses, expression souring just slightly, “I went through a pretty rough time when I was young, and my Gran-Gran showed me how to use a yo-yo to help like, I don’t know, _balance_ myself? And it did end up helping, but I’m always looking for something _more_ ,” a soft, self-deprecating laugh pulls free, “my grandfather had an antique bola, one that had probably never been used before it just hung up as a sort of decoration, a reminder of our past traditions as a hunting people, and I thought ‘how hard could it be to make one?’” 

Lee snorts, returning the nudge Sokka gave earlier, “I’m assuming ‘very hard’?” 

“Listen, a lot of things are ‘very hard’ that’s not very specific—” the nudge turns into a shove, and Sokka laughs—breathless and airy, his amusement difficult to hide. 

“You know what I meant!” 

“Okay, okay, sorry—anyway, like I was saying before you interrupted,” he dodges the shove this time, grabbing his wrist between his hands, holding it away from him in triumph. That is, until he sees the wide-eyed look on the other, gaze caught on his grip. Sokka loosens his grasp and Lee pulls his arm back to rest in his lap, fingers brushing over the top of his wrist. Sokka uses his—now free—hand to rub the clammy, embarrassed feeling from the nape of his neck. “Um, yeah so, I had this idea like I need to make my own bola and it needs to be _useful_ because I was still too young to go on whaling trips with my dad, but I wanted to do _something_ to feel… necessary. 

“So I spent that whole summer asking every single elder I came in contact with if they had any advice or suggestions, and just wouldn’t leave them alone about it.” He shakes his head at himself. “I think Gran-Gran eventually had an intervention with me,” he pitches his voice down in a loving mimic of hers, “‘ _Sokka, if you’re going to ask for knowledge you need to do so in a respectful manner, and you will receive the answers you’re looking for if you remain patient._ ’” 

“Sounds like you were an interesting kid,” Lee laughs. 

“You don’t even know the half of it,” he admits sheepishly before continuing, “one of Gran-Gran’s friends found an old, handwritten book that had drawings and instructions for some of the _‘outdated’_ weapons. She sat down with me one day and helped me translate it, and it was like this big break through moment, I was finally going to make this thing that I’d been enamored with for months and it was _exhilarating_. 

“I spent _weeks_ finding the materials, picking out the perfect stones and spending hours sanding them down until they are all the same tear-drop shape—tying them together with sinew on a handle I carved out of baleen.

“Looking back, it makes sense why I was so drawn to engineering, like, there’s just something so amazing about building with your hands, documenting what works and what doesn’t, and eventually you’re left with this incredible _thing_ that you’ve poured your soul into…” he cuts himself off, feeling heat bathe his skin, “... and you have a moment where you sit there like _‘wow, this isn’t just in my head anymore it’s real, it’s here, I’m holding it’_ and that summer, building my first bola, that’s still one of the achievements I’m most proud of.

“Sorry for rambling but uh–basically after I made it, I took it on a trip with my dad and we caught a bird together for the first time and I dunno, it just sort of became my thing. I’d go on all of the whaling trips and catch the birds while the rest of them did the hard work,” he flicks his wrists to the side in emphasis, _“‘Sokka the Bola Guy.’”_

“So, I guess you found your balance?” 

The question throws him, his mouth parting slightly in his stunned silence. 

“I–um, yeah. I guess I did.” 

“I think I understand… I mean it’s not the same at all really but uh–about finding balance in a thing, well I guess not a thing but like _in something_ outside of yourself,” Lee starts, brow furrowing as he attempts to find the words. 

“Yeah?” Sokka encourages, smiling when he meets his eyes. 

“That’s how I feel about acting, like, when I was a kid the idea of being someone else was just, _so cool_ , you know? But when I got older, escaping in that way was an outlet I was so grateful to have especially when—” he trails off, closing his eyes tightly, head tipping back against the wall. “It doesn’t really matter. I guess what I’m trying to get at is when I learn a new role, become a new person, it grounds me in a way that nothing else really does. It’s like I have all of this… anxiety and stupid _feelings_ that overwhelm me in my day-to-day life, but when I’m on stage it all melts away. I’m not… _Lee_ anymore, I’m whatever the role needs me to be, and that’s all anyone else will see, too.” 

He finishes in a rush, picking at the fraying ends of his sweater sleeve. Sokka doesn’t think he’s ever heard him say so much at once—but finds he could listen to him talk about anything and never grow tired of the sound. 

“I’m afraid… that as _myself_ , I’m never going to be good enough. But when I act… I don’t know–I just feel... whole.” He reaches to brush a hand beneath his scar, the movement so absent Sokka isn’t sure he’s aware he’s done it—if he’s aware of how the movement combined with his words sends a rush of uneasiness over him, washing his skin in a cold sweat. 

“You’re not… you’re not _lacking_ anything,” he starts, wincing at his word choice. “I mean–It’s incredible that you’re able to find so much of yourself in your passion, but you make it great because of _you_ , not in spite of it.” 

“No, I… It’s because of the writing, not because of me.” 

“Isn’t the whole point that you study the written role and then bring it to life? How could that hold any weight, if not for the talent of the actor?” he asks. “If it wasn’t for _you_ , then there would be no substance.” 

Lee is quiet, eyes distant in thought. Sokka chides himself for being too overbearing, too nosy, _too much_. A less-than-comfortable silence follows, broken only by a repetitive chattering, which began quietly but has gradually increased in volume—difficult to ignore. 

“Are you ready to go inside?” he asks, noticing the near-constant shiver racking the other. 

“N–no,” Lee manages, shoving his hands further into the bend of his knees, where they’ve rested most of the night. 

Sokka rolls his eyes, his stubbornness shouldn’t be endearing, and yet he finds himself tapping his exposed wrist, fondness leaking into his tone. 

“You’re gonna lose your fingers.” 

“Don’t n–need them anyway,” he pouts, breath stuttering out as another particularly strong chill overtakes his frame. 

He shakes his head, scooting himself across the ground until he’s facing Lee, crossing his legs and looking expectantly at him, gesturing for him to do the same. Lee’s right eye squints—a question in his gaze—but still, he lowers his legs, crossing them in a similar position so their knees press firmly together. 

“Give me your hands.” 

“No.” 

“C’mon! I’m trying to help you out here, let me have them.” 

“They’re… mine,” he argues weakly, attempting to tuck them into his armpits instead, now that his knees are no longer the warmest option. 

Sokka reaches out, grappling with him for a moment, laughter spilling into the air around them. 

“Stop! I need them!” 

“I thought you just said you didn’t?” 

“Well, I lied!” 

“Just give them to me– _stop fighting_!” Sokka finally manages to wrangle the other’s hands into his own grasp, both of them breathing heavily from the scuffle. “Was that so hard? I’m just trying to–oh my, _Spirits,_ your hands are, like, frozen solid, buddy.” 

“I forgot my gloves.” 

“I can see that,” he shakes his head, pulling Lee’s arms towards him. “Put them in my pockets, we can like, share body heat or whatever.” 

An apprehensive look crosses Lee’s features but he relaxes, the weight of his limbs heavy in Sokka’s grip. He shuffles closer to the other boy, which doesn’t seem possible but he does it anyway, so he can guide their hands comfortably inside the pockets of his coat.

They must look ridiculous like this, both of them sitting hunched over on the ground, sharing heat in the pockets of one jacket, when they could just as easily go inside. 

Lee relaxes fully, his head hanging down as he works his numb fingers into the space beside Sokka’s, wrapping around him hesitantly. Sokka’s still-loose hair falls into his face, obscuring his view slightly, but even still he doesn’t miss how close they are, how they’re both leaning into each other’s space as if they’ve known each other longer than a handful of hours. 

The moonlight washes over Lee’s unscarred cheek, illuminating his skin where the light is able to reach, casting a shadow over the rest of him. It takes a moment for Sokka to realize he’s staring, both of them caught in the invisible pull their eye contact brings. 

From this close, Sokka can see entire lifetimes playing out in the depths of his irises—the golden brown flecked with hints of amber, like stepping stones to the future they could’ve had, _once_.

He realizes, though he’s been aware of it since the moment he sat down, that this is exactly what he’d been afraid would happen. He’d known, from the first time he looked into the other’s eyes, that he was completely powerless in his presence. The brief, chance meeting that landed him in a small tea shop across from a boy who drank his tea black and loved acting because he couldn’t stand playing the part of himself evidence to the lack of choice he’d had. 

He memorizes the boy in front of him—the boy destiny chose for him, but whose own doesn’t include Sokka in the script—because his memory is all he will have when this moment ends. 

Sokka can’t have Lee forever but he can have this: the universe they’ve created between their palms—their fingers warm where they’re clasped within his pockets—so strong it feels as though they could draw anything into their orbit.

Their shared breath clouds the air, and it’s impossible to determine where Sokka ends and the other begins. The tip of Lee’s nose is pink-tinged, a deeper flush spreading over his cheeks and disappearing into his hairline. He’s bathed in moonlight and the chill of winter and Sokka leans closer, sharing space, sharing air until—

A loud crash sounds from inside the apartment, followed by a ring of laughter. They’ve pulled away from each other in the aftermath, startled back into themselves. Lee’s hands are still trapped in his pockets, now just as warm as his own.

Sokka doesn’t let go. 

****

Eventually, their eyes begin to droop, their effortless conversation coming to a stand-still as they both struggle to stay awake. 

Sokka opens the back door, gesturing for Lee to go ahead, cursing as he tries to stretch out his left leg, the joint locked and sore from sitting in the same position for too long in the cold. He tries not to limp as he enters, shocked to find that his friends are gone, the room empty. 

_How long had they been out there?_

Lee has his phone in hand, eyes squinting at the bright screen in the dark. 

“Aang texted me like twenty minutes ago that he had to leave to let Appa out, but didn’t want to interrupt,” he says. “He knows I hate walking alone.”

“I can’t walk you home, but I can walk you down. Make sure you find the front door okay.” 

“You’re infuriating, you know that?” 

“I’ve been told once or twice, I think?” 

Lee runs his fingers through the loose portion of his hair, pulling the length of it over one shoulder. Sokka imagines what it would be like to run his own fingers through the strands—if it would be as soft against his hands as it looks when picked through by careful fingers.

“Oh, wait before I forget, I have a spare pair of gloves you can borrow,” says Sokka, already moving to the hall tree where they keep their winter garments. 

“No that’s okay–you don’t need to do that.” The argument is weak, the other boy already following him. 

“Seriously? You almost froze to death on my watch, it’s not happening again if I can help it.” He finds the pair he was looking for under a pair of Katara’s silver ones and for a second he’s tempted to hand those over but he refrains, instead handing him his own black pair. 

“I wasn’t that cold,” he mutters, pulling the gloves over his hands.

Sokka raises a single eyebrow, a retort playing at his lips, his expression conveying the words left unvoiced, the words that say _‘sure you weren’t,’_ and _‘my pockets are double warm because of my own hands not yours’_.

Their bickering follows them downstairs, the quips and insults thinly veiling the fond undertones that lie beneath, a fondness Sokka is refusing to focus on too deeply right now. 

They stand facing each other outside of the door to Sokka’s apartment building, the street quiet—still—the only movement coming from the steady rise and fall of their chests.

Lee’s mouth opens and closes once, the words dying in his throat. For a moment, Sokka isn’t sure he’ll speak at all, then all at once the words escape him, seeming to push free without control. 

“You know, I waited for you, in the cafe this past week. Um—but you never came so—” he pauses, looking at a spot over Sokka’s shoulder, “so, I just thought... maybe you didn’t want to see me again.” 

The confession hits, the impact almost physical with the weight it carries within him. 

“Why wouldn’t I want to see you?” he says, despite knowing the answer—despite knowing he was doing just that. 

Lee kneads his lip between his teeth, and Sokka has the foresight to stop himself before he can reach out a hand to smooth the worry from his features, to correct the nervous habit they apparently share.

“I said your name.” 

And— _oh_. 

His name—the sound of which the very cause of the conflict currently warring inside of him. A name said by the right person in the wrong timeline, ignorance he can never get back. 

But he’s decided he can’t hold his own mistake against the other any longer because the very beginning started with a name, and that name was said by _himself_. 

“Oh, that?” he forces a laugh, attempting to cover up his rising panic, “That was no big deal. Uh... maybe if we’d, you know bonded, but we didn’t so—” he cuts himself off, pressing his lips firmly and tucking his hands beneath his arms to hide their shake. “It’s fine I promise.” 

Lee deflates with the reassurance, the tentative smile he’d had most of the night now turned to Sokka again, earnest in its appearance. “Still, I wanted to apologize, it was rude of me to—” 

“—was it rude of me to do it first?” he interrupts, “trust me, you don’t have to worry about it.” 

“If you’re sure…” Lee trails off, looking at him as if wishing he could find the words for him. 

“I’m sure.” Maybe he’s tired and not thinking clearly, or maybe he’s chronically prone to out of body experiences because he reaches for Lee’s—now gloved—hand and brushes his thumb across the top of his covered skin. “You can say it whenever you want.”

Lee stares down at their joined hands, lips slightly parted, small puffs of air pushing free, hazy and tangible. His eyes flicker up and meet Sokka’s—freezing him to the spot with the open intensity in his expression. 

“I’m glad I was able to see you again,” a beat passes in tandem with the pound of his heart, “ _Sokka_.” 

His chest tingles, a phantom sensation compared to the earlier burn. The reaction itself is a manifestation, his skin responding to the whispered words from a voice it perceives as his—though he himself knows it will never be possible. 

“You too, Lee.” 

They share another warm look, the names spoken aloud almost feel like a promise. There’s snow caught in Lee’s eyelashes and his bitten lips are chapped from the wind, as much as Sokka wishes he could stay in this moment he knows he needs to let go. 

So he does.

He drops Lee’s hand, reaching instead for the cell phone shoved deep into his coat pocket. “Let me get your number before I forget again.” 

Sokka saves Lee’s name under “inconsiderate pedestrian.” And if he did so to hear the quiet huff resembling a laugh, then no one but him has to know. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Sokka promises. 

“Can’t wait,” his own promise mirrored in his tone. 

Lee turns then, pulling his hood over his head, his figure rapidly disappearing down the sidewalk with his quick gait. 

Sokka stands in the doorway to his apartment building, watching him until he is completely out of sight. Until all that’s left is scattered footprints in the snow and a lingering warmth in his palm. 

The events of the night filter in, rapidly flicking from scene to scene, moment to moment, reliving every word, every spoken syllable and still he ends up with the same answers to the same problems that have plagued him from the moment he first saw him. 

Sokka never wanted a soulmate, and the universe listened: It gave him the opportunity to go about his life without the bond of another, and still he’s found himself yearning for his touch, his smile, _him_. 

He should stay away—far away. If he was a stronger person he would find it in himself to manage it, but Sokka isn’t strong, he isn’t brave. He can’t force himself to stay away from the other boy, as much as it hurts to know one day he’ll have to leave. One day his soulmate will find the comfort of another and Sokka will have to endure it, as he’s endured every other hardship in his life. 

Still, he can’t help but think it’s worth it to _know_ him—to collect whatever pieces of him he’s willing to spare, to keep close to him when he goes—to know the way the moonlight reflects in his eyes, the way his skin flushes despite the cold, the way his smile knocks the air from his lungs, steals the logic from his mind. 

He can’t be the person he needs, but he can be a friend. 

That’s all he’ll ever be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH!! HOW ARE WE FEELING YALL?? 
> 
> hands ! gay ! pea brain can't process anything other than.. hands.. anyway-
> 
> also idk if anyone noticed that chapter count but 👀 subject to change of course but I finally sat down and fully outlined it and that's where we ended up this is gonna be a massive one folks 
> 
> scream with me on [tumblr!](https://zukkau.tumblr.com)
> 
> —
> 
> credit to @vanderlindyhop on tumblr for [this post](https://vanderlindyhop.tumblr.com/post/631817429542223872/sokka-wearing-yues-handmade-lesbian-earrings-send) that inspired yue being a lesbian with unique earrings that she shares with sokka (I already wrote them being on tiktok but the extra detail of the earrings!! ahh!!) 
> 
> information regarding the bola is in this [google doc](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1v0MT0HrfRMveIA0IJH-flMVk5MmWiFQQhHbmmglJYXU/edit?usp=sharing) as well as other inupiat information/research. I wanted to give sokka a weapon/tool that's more culturally accurate than the boomerang he uses in the show, and the bola is just perfect! it's a throwing tool as well and it isn't in use anymore (like he explained with so many words lol) but if anyone is gonna recreate an ancient weapon, train with it, and use it for its intended purpose it's gonna be sokka. 
> 
> Special thanks again to [@mostly-mundane-atla](https://mostly-mundane-atla.tumblr.com) for answering my ask regarding the bola and giving me extra information (the full ask answer will be included in the doc)! 
> 
> —
> 
> okay that's all I hope y'all enjoyed!!


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